


between the sheets

by thoseguitarists



Series: two lost souls on two barstools [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, F/M, Gradual Depression, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Narry - Freeform, Pining, Unrequited Love, Verbal Abuse, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 192,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5250932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoseguitarists/pseuds/thoseguitarists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall liked him first, but that doesn't matter. </p><p>Niall still likes him, but that doesn't matter, either. </p><p>Or, it's not supposed to, at least, but when it comes to Harry, he's all that matters.</p><p>
  <i>(Or, wherein Niall’s falling in love with Harry at the same time his cousin Lauren is, too, and it’s really, really hard to be with somebody who isn’t gay. And Niall kind of learns to understand that sometimes you don’t get what you want or what you need.)<i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

“He’s quite cute, isn’t he?”

Niall blinks, glancing out of the corner of his eye at his cousin, Lauren, as she sips idly at her fruity drink, gaze glued to the dancefloor as the guests move and sway to the beat of whatever classic rock song is playing through the fuzzy speakers.

“Who?” Niall asks, bringing his own cup up to his lips, throwing back a gulp; the liquor is a harsh burn as it slides down his throat and settles in his tummy, but it feels good, warming and relaxing. A few more and he’ll be shitfaced for sure, and he kind of wants that, what with having to deal with his whole family and all.

It’s a bit difficult, that’s for sure.

“Him.” She points conspicuously with the fingers of her hands that’s holding her cup. “The one with long hair and weird tattoos.”

Weird? _Weird_? They’re not weird. They’re art ― _Harry_ is a work of art. And his hair? Niall can surely write a novel about his adoration for his friend’s hair.

“Harry?”

“Hmm. Yeah. Hot, isn’t he?”

Niall pursues his lips and shrugs, not agreeing but not necessarily disagreeing, either. If Lauren honestly wants his opinion, he thinks she should find a chair and pull it up to prepare for the long explanation that Niall will give her. No, Harry isn’t hot and no, Harry’s not cute, either ― he’s handsome, stunning, beautiful, breathtaking. Somebody unique and exquisite and extravagant and graceful and elegant; somebody that goes down in the history books because he’s such a great guy, fun-loving and happy-go-lucky and respectfully chivalrous and nice, so it’s not forgotten the way he made people feel.

Yeah, Harry’s the epitome of being alive. And he’s not hot ― he’s what the stars and sunshine and moonshine are made out of it: history and promises and deep smiles.

“Care to introduce me to him?” Lauren asks after a moment.

Niall slides a glance toward his cousin, narrowing his eyes as he sizes her up. She’s tall, kind of, only a bit shorter than Niall; her hair is light brown and long, reaching to the top of her bum, and her eyes are the color of the ocean ― darker and deeper and all around more frightening than Niall’s, he thinks. Her shoulders are slim and her waist is petite and her hips are luscious and her bust is large and her fingers are small and her tummy is quite rounded and her lips are a pretty pink color and her nose has a few freckles on the tip and her legs are tan and almost never-ending and her toes are cute, painted royal purple, and she’s not got a horrible personality, really. She’s easy to get along with, nice to talk to, sweet to be around, simple to please.

All in all, seen as a whole, Lauren’s beautiful. Gorgeous. Pretty. Confidently so. She’s everything a guy wants ― and she’s everything that needs to stay away from Harry because Niall liked him first. Niall saw Harry first. Harry _is_ Niall’s.

But Harry doesn’t know that. Nobody does except for Niall and the walls of his bedroom.

“Go introduce yourself,” he says, quite bitterly, trying to mask his sour tone with an annoyed smile that Lauren laughs lightly at. “You’ve got two legs and mum told me to babysit the punch table so Lou doesn’t try to spike the drinks like last year.”

“Louis’s not even family, Ni,” she points out, pursing her lips. “He shouldn’t be here.”

Niall rolls his eyes and coughs into his hand because they have this argument every year, during every family reunion ― no, Louis’s not family, and neither is Harry, Liam, or Zayn, but his grandparents don’t mind that he brings a few extra people each year. In fact, they encourage it ― they love Niall’s friends almost as much as they love Niall, and Niall knows the boys adore his family no matter how in-your-face and wild they are.

“Louis is a big enough part of our family that he didn’t even get in trouble for spiking the punch, Lauren. He’s welcome here just as much as any of us, I suppose.”

“Hmm. I should’ve came last year.”

“Should’ve.” Niall shrugs; his opinion on the matter is quite rude and he doesn’t want to offend his cousin. He loves her ― he does ― but last year she was dating a big music executive, and he was so, so fucking hard to manage a conversation with because the lad lacked common sense, and Niall’s sort of glad she didn’t come. A lot glad, actually. At least he’s gone now, though. “But you didn’t. And you missed grandpop streaking down the road at five in the morning. Was wild as fuck.”

Lauren winces. “I don’t know if I want to see that.”

“It was really funny watching dad and Greg trying to catch him. Harry actually wet himself laughing so hard and I tried to record the whole thing but I didn’t know where my phone was at that moment. Louis and Liam were on the roof at that time, doing God knows what. I don’t even know. Zayn was in the lake, in a boat, sleeping it off, till a duck hopped in.” Niall stops, takes a moment to just laugh because that was the time of his life ― he laughed so hard he fell, and then when Harry picked him up they fell back over, clutching their tummies and sobbing with amusement. “Fuck. One of the best nights of my life, definitely.”

“Harry was here last year?” she asks, raising a brow.

And of course that’s all she got out of Niall’s words. _Of course_. Because this is Lauren, after all ― beautiful, glowing, smart, intelligent Lauren, who can probably have any guy or girl or person she wants.

But she can’t have Harry. Harry is Niall’s.

“Yeah,” Niall replies, taking a sip of his drink and leveling his gaze over the cup, watching Harry happily twirl one of the younger cousins with his index finger, throwing his head back and laughing like a little kid as she giggles and asks him to swirl her again and again and again. “Met him at university during the first year ― ‘cause he was Louis’s roommate before Lou moved in with Liam and Zayn, and then he was my roommate till we all got a house together last year ― and I thought it was time to ask him over to meet the family.” Niall shrugs. “I guess he liked it enough last year to want to come back this year.”

“And he’s single?”

It takes everything ― everything ― in Niall to not tell a little fib, to not tell Lauren that yes, Harry’s taken and she has no business going after a committed man. But, the sad truth is that Harry isn’t taken; Harry’s single and he really, really likes to mingle.

“He’s free.”

“And he’s into…” Lauren leaves the question open, allowing Niall to fill in the blank.

“I’ve only seen him with females,” he says, and then, on a whim of remembrance when he barged into Louis and Harry’s shared dorm the first time they met, he adds, “but I did see him and Lou kissing once, so he may be bisexual. Or pansexual. Or just... curious.”

Niall doesn’t tell her that it was four years ago, doesn’t tell her that the kiss only happened because Louis was high on weed and Harry was drunk on something or another, doesn’t tell her that it’s the one and only time Harry and Louis have locked lips ― doesn’t tell her that it’s the one and only time he’s seen Harry with a man opposed to the six times he’s seen Harry with a female.

Because he told her enough of the truth to get her off his back, and hopefully stop her abrupt pursuit of Niall’s best friend.

And yeah, he counts. He counts because in those six girls, three of them made Harry cry, two of them made him so mad he was deliriously drunk and high and fucked up for a week, which resulted in him losing his job and misplacing his cellphone and maxing out his credit card, and one literally put him in a hospital, beating him up while he was sat on the toilet because she saw a message on his phone from Gemma.

Gemma is Harry’s older sister. Gemma’s a sweetheart. Gemma is Harry in girl form, with browns eyes and hair that changes colors like the sky. Gemma also let that girl know, with actions and words, that she is to not ever mess with Harry again.

That was a wild week Niall will never forget.

“I bet I can change that.”

Niall frowns and fights back the urge to scoff. “You can’t make somebody straight just ‘cause you want them to be, Lauren,” he says, and the level of seriousness in his voice causes her to gasp. “Stop being a pretentious jerk and let people be who they are.”

“Oh.” Her face turns red though her makeup hides it, and Niall really wishes she was one of those people who didn’t know how to accurately apply the stuff, but she isn’t. She looks flawless with or without makeup, and Niall hates that because he gets acne when he’s stressed and his freckles are sometimes too dark, in his opinion, and his lips are dry and his eyes aren’t nearly as bright as they could be and it’s kind of not fair that he’s left with the short end of the stick while Lauren’s a model. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t.” Niall shuts his eyes and inhales deeply. “Just drop it.”

Besides, Niall’s not gay. He’s bisexual, and that’s different. He just likes dick better than vagina most nights.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and Niall sighs because Lauren isn’t the nicest person, no, but she’s mature in the way that she admits when she’s wrong and apologies for being inconsiderate. She’s a real person, a real female, and not some lady the books and media and world have painted as a bitch. “I really I am. I just… Sometimes I don’t have a filter.”

Niall giggles. “I know.”

And she laughs, too. “And I can’t help it. But I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Niall nods. “I know.” And he does ― and he does because growing up with Lauren has accustomed him to her ways, has provided him the opportunity to get to know her in nearly every way. “And I accept your apology.”

She smiles and nods, and before Niall or her can say anything else there’s a tattooed finger grabbing Niall’s liquor-filled cup from his hands and taking a hearty swig; Niall's not even sure what’s going on.

Niall looks, wild-eyed and moderately pissed, and sees Harry standing in front of him, and Harry’s sweaty and his hair is a mess and his tie is undone and his shirt is unbuttoned and his black blazer is shrugged off and tossed onto a random chair and he rolls his sleeves up after giving Niall back the cup and he is just so, so handsome that Niall can hardly think.

_Oh my._

“Come dance with me,” Harry says, and his smile is like electric fire and his eyes are gray-green pools of dark water that seems to taunt and invite like the most salacious of sirens. “I want to see the way you move.”

And ― and okay. _Fuck_. Okay. Niall would love to.

But he can’t. ‘Cause he’s shit at dancing, and he doesn’t want to step on Harry’s feet or trip Harry; the thought of embarrassing himself in front of Harry is one that kind of makes him shy away from Harry, kind of makes him cringe in a way that he should have already grown out of.

He shakes his head, and Harry’s grin falters before brightening again, and Niall’s amazed at Harry’s resilient attitude. “C’mon, Ni. It’ll be fun. Promise.”

Again, Niall shakes his head, smiling at Harry’s whined begging. “I’m shit at it and I’m s’posed to be guarding the punch, H.”

Harry grunts, stomps his foot like a little kid and reaches out for Niall’s hand, playing with Niall’s fingers in a way that makes Niall shiver. “I’m sure somebody wouldn’t mind watching over it for a bit,” Harry replies. “You’ve been here all night, and I want to spend some time with my best friend. I can only dance with little girls for so long, Ni.”

“Would you mind dancing with a big girl?” Lauren asks, and ― and fuck, Niall wants to kick the shit out of his cousin for that comment.

Harry’s attention moves from Niall to Lauren, and the smile on his too-red, too-wet lips is pretty and endearing and radiant, and Niall’s torn between wanting to stake his unannounced claim on Harry or collapsing in on himself to fade away from the world and all his problems.

“That would be lovely,” Harry answers, dropping Niall’s hand to grab for Lauren’s, shaking it softly, thoroughly, and Niall’s mortified at how lovely, at how completely their palms fit against one another’s. Harry’s fingers are long and Niall’s palm is large, and it’s hard to interlace their fingers without one or both cramping up, and it’s just so, so sad that Harry fits so, so well with Lauren. “I’m Harry.”

She nods ― ‘cause she knows. “I’m Lauren.” She smiles ― _stop it. Stop it now_. “And I’m Niall’s cousin.”

Harry licks his lips and blinks, flitting a questioning look in Niall’s direction before returning his complete attention to Lauren. “Then I’m sure you’ve got loads of embarrassing stories to tell me ‘bout this one since he doesn’t like to share with me.”

Lauren nods, and she’s absolutely radiant in Harry’s presence, shining like dew-covered grass in the early morning light. “Definitely. And I’ll tell you over a dance.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Harry drags Lauren closer then, puts his hand on the small of her back and leads her off toward the crowded dancefloor where the young and old are moving about with no worries. “Ni, pour me a drink and watch my coat, will ya?”

And Niall nods because he’s a puppet for Harry, because he’s so madly in a deep infatuation with Harry that he knows he would do anything asked of him. He’d swim every ocean, walk on lava, steal the moon, rob the cradle of life just to see Harry smile.

But he doesn’t know if he can sit back and watch Harry fall in love with his cousin, of all people. He doesn’t know how he’s going to compete with Lauren for a permanent place in Harry’s heart when Harry’s made it clear they’re nothing except friends ― brothers.

 

 


	2. two

Harry and Lauren are kissing, so sweet and tender and in love, and Niall’s trying not to notice, but when he’s the only person in the room who isn’t wrapped around someone else, who isn’t locking lips with someone else, it’s kind of hard not to. Notice, that is.

Also, the movie Harry’s picked is one Niall’s seen before, is one Niall ventured off to the theater to view a few weeks ago after Harry baled on him to take Lauren to the carnival. He actually went three times, deciding it was good and that if Harry wasn’t going to be home, if Harry wasn’t going to be available to watch a few football matches, then he’ll just waste what little bit of money he makes at the theater to see a film he’s already sat through before.

He’s been so many times the workers know him by name, too. They also follow each other on Twitter and chat, too, but that’s beside the point. The point is that Harry, Niall’s best friend, has baled on Niall once again even though he’s still here.

And that’s happened more than once ― Harry baling on Niall. Twenty-eight times, to be exact. And that’s a month out of the six Harry and Lauren have been dating.

But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because he likes the movie, likes the plot even though it’s clichéd and overused, unrealistic and cheesy. Girl meets boy, girl introduces best friend to boy, best friend and boy begin to date and put girl through hell, girl gets fake-boyfriend against her will, boy eventually falls for girl ― but that’s okay because the best friend was cheating with fake-boyfriend, anyway ― and all is okay in the end.

Except it isn’t. Not really. Because things like that don’t happen, and it’s laughable to think that it’s possible.

Niall can’t help but put himself in the movie, can’t help but take over the lead role and imagine that he’s meeting Harry, imagine that they’re two successful young adults who spontaneously rush into one another and hit it off, imagine that Lauren took Harry away from Niall, imagine that Lauren set Niall up with a boy or girl because she ‘felt bad that he was always third-wheeling everything’, imagine that Harry eventually falls for him, imagine that they find some way to be together, imagine that everything is eventually okay in the end.

But it’s all shit, anyway.

Because, for starters, Niall’s broke. He isn’t successful at all, and he’s kind of pissed for picking to major in a path that has no jobs available, having to settle for a sticky supermarket worker till one opens up and he can take advantage of it.

Besides, he knows Lauren will never cheat on Harry. _Ever_. And Harry will never cheat on Lauren, either. _Ever_. Because they love each other ― because they’re so in love with one another that it kind of makes Niall sick.

Also, Niall and Harry met when they were eighteen. And hardly anybody is successful at eighteen, really.

He’s twenty-two now. He’s twenty-two, and he still can’t find matching socks for shit let alone become a successful author or even secure a position at a school or facility as an art teacher.

Because that’s what he wants to be, really: an author and an artist. They’re one and the same, in a way. But his inspiration is kind of inspiring somebody else, and without a muse there’s no words. There’s no happy, no elation, no smiles, no laughter ― there’s only sadness. Sadness and grayness, because black is too dark of a way to describe how he feels, because Harry will always be Niall’s light even though he’s lighting up somebody else.

In the word of friendship, of family, Niall’s _awful_. He’s the worst; he’s lower than low, meaner than mean, dumber than dumb ― because everybody knows the unsaid rule, the unwritten rule: you don’t like your cousin’s boyfriend.

Niall knows that. He does. Honestly. And he doesn’t want to like Harry, doesn’t want to feel anything more than friendship for Harry because he’s Lauren’s boyfriend and she’s crazy about him in a way she’s never been for a boy. And Harry is in a deep infatuation with her, too, and Niall’s never seen him like this with a girl before.

And Niall?

Well, he’s as lonely as he’s always been.

Never had a boyfriend, never had a girlfriend ― the things people think about him are lies, pure and simple. He’s had his first kiss, of course, and a few more after, and he’s been felt up and felt people up, too, but that’s as far as his experience goes. At eighteen, he was still a virgin, innocent in the sense that he was never touched because he didn’t want to be touched. At eighteen, he found the person he would like to lose his virginity to; he found the person he would like to cook for and hold in his arms at night and snuggle with while watching stupid sporting shows.

At eighteen, he found Harry.

And at eighteen, Harry found girls.

And at twenty-two, Niall’s still stuck on Harry who is stuck on Lauren.

It’s shit, you know, being a male and liking a male who isn’t gay. Or bisexual, really. It hurts, really deep, in your bones and heart and lungs, where people can’t see or hear or feel, but where you can taste it in your mind. It’s a horrible pain Niall would never wish on anybody; not even his biggest enemy.

Niall wishes the house he and Harry shared with Louis and Liam and Zayn was still full, wishes the three of them hadn’t moved out and left Niall alone with Harry who sometimes featured Lauren more often than not. But Louis discovered that he’s to be a daddy soon after a reckless night at a party and decided it best for him and the mother-to-be to move in with one another in a flat a block away from the house, and Liam moved out shortly after he and Sophia broke up and is now renting a place closer to his office thirty minutes away, and Zayn fancies illustrating the books his little sister writes better from a secluded cottage he managed to catch outside of the city than a crowded townhouse with only two bathrooms.

But he can’t change that. He can’t change the past or present or future no matter how hard he wishes he could.

He misses them. He misses the late nights and early mornings and dirty football matches and stinky dishes and messy corridors and endless noise; he misses waking up in bed with Harry because Zayn got lost on the way to his room and decided Niall’s was the better choice, anyway, misses cooking breakfast for dinner with Liam, misses coloring page after page after page with Louis’s younger sisters whenever he had them over.

He also misses the cheaper rent, too. Everybody and their mother knows Niall struggled all throughout university, and now that he’s working messily at a supermarket while all his friends are capitalizing on their degrees and pocketing hundreds every day, he feels like shit. He feels like he can’t do anything right.

But Harry understands. At least, Niall hopes Harry understands ― because Harry doesn’t need Niall to make the house or utilities payment. He can do that just fine all on his own.

Niall’s honestly surprised Harry hasn’t kicked him out by now. It’s only a matter of time, anyway.

A throw pillow is slung across the living room, hitting him in the face, and he snaps out of his thoughts, turns to see that Harry and Lauren, curled together on the loveseat angled to the left of the couch, are finished kissing; their lips are wet and kind of bruised and very red, and Harry’s hair is disheveled and Lauren’s shirt is crooked and they look like two teenagers just discovering intimacy for the first time.

“What?” Niall frowns at the gruffness of his voice, clears his throat before speaking again. “What? ‘M tryin’ to watch the movie here. Leave me be.”

“Oh, hush,” Lauren says, rolls her eyes and gives Niall an award-winning smile, and Niall thinks it would be easier for him to not be happy for Harry if she was a bitch. But, the thing is, Lauren isn’t ― she’s a wonderful girl, and she makes Harry happy, and seeing Harry happy is what makes Niall happy. “You’ve seen this movie loads of times. You’re not missing anything.”

Niall wants to tell her she’s wrong, wants to tell her that you find something new every time you watch it, but he can’t force his mind to put the words on his tongue because his eyes are glued to Harry’s bulging crotch and he’s too busy wondering what it would feel like to be the one to make Harry lose his mind.

“You’ve seen this before?” Harry speaks up then, and his voice is hoarse, too, but deep and heavy and thick for a completely different reason than Niall’s is.

Niall tears his eyes from Harry’s groin and nods jerkily, locking his jaw as he blinks, looks at the dark-colored wall over Harry’s shoulder.

“When ―”

“He went to the theater a few weeks ago, right?” Lauren cuts Harry off, and though she’s speaking to Harry she’s asking Niall, asking him to confirm her statement that’s kind of a question, too.

He nods. That’s all he can do: just nod. He’s good at speaking, but not speaking makes it easier to feel everything, and feeling everything isn’t good. And it’s all just a circular mess that makes his head hurt more than his heart.

Harry frowns, and he looks cute when he’s confused, when his eyes are narrowed and his brows are pushed together. “Why didn’t you let me know?” he asks, speaking directly to Niall. “I would’ve gone. I’ve wanted to see this movie since it was previewed.”

And Niall knows that.

Niall shrugs. “I did,” he says, and he wagers what it would be if he just left his statement there, if he just let everything hang out in the open. But he’s a coward and he can’t help himself, can’t find it in him to make Harry sad. “I did, but you were busy and I didn’t want to bother you.”

Harry was busy ― all three times, he was. With Lauren. And yeah, that makes Niall mad, of course it does, but it’s normal ― it’s normal because Harry is Lauren’s boyfriend and Lauren is Harry’s girlfriend, and that’s what two people who are together do. They spend time with one another.

And ignore their friends, too. But that’s not a big deal.

It shouldn’t be, at least.

“Oh,” Harry says, and then his eyes widen with realization, with understanding, and ― “ _Oh_.”

“S’fine.” Niall waves off Harry’s unsaid question with a shrug of the shoulders and a flick of his wrist because he knows ― _he knows_ ― that Harry would demand Niall to tell him why, would demand Niall to tell him how in the world he thought it was okay to go ahead and be alone. “Everything’s fine. I had a nice time.”

And he did. And Harry knows why Niall went alone, too. There’s no need to ask questions that are already answered.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says.

Niall shakes his head, looks at his phone when a message notification pops up, realizes it’s almost time to head off to work. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, H,” he replies and stands, stretching his arms above his head and yawning because he really fancied a nap before work, but Harry showed up with Lauren and kind of ruined those plans. Again. “’M gonna get ready to go to work.”

“I’ll take you.” Harry detaches himself from Lauren in the most tender of ways, hops up like a fluffy maniac with wild hair and bright, bright eyes. “I’ll take you to work. If you’ll get ready and let me use the bathroom, I’ll take you to work.”

It’s automatic, what comes out of Niall’s; it’s something he said even before Harry and Lauren become HarryandLauren, something he said even when all five of them were happy and living together, something he said so things would stay perfectly okay in the weird balance of contentment he discovered.

“It’s okay, Harry. You don’t have to. I can walk; s’not that far.” But it is ― it is because the supermarket is a twenty minute drive, and Niall knows Harry knows this. “Besides, it’s nice outside.” But it isn’t, either ― the sky is only moments away from breaking, from opening up wide and dropping buckets and buckets and buckets of water.

He’ll never make it.

Harry rolls his eyes, shakes his head, walks toward Niall and pulls him into a one-armed, brotherly hug ― as if he’s older than Niall, as if he’s Niall’s caretaker, as if he’s Niall’s keeper when, in reality, Niall has five months on Harry. He doesn’t like it, either ― doesn’t like seeming smaller than he already feels, but Harry’s hugs are a kingdom all their own.

“Hush. Don’t act like that. It’s ‘bout to rain and I’m not letting you get sick, Ni.” Harry smells nice, like pineapples and peppermint and peaches. He also smells like Lauren, like lavender and strawberries and vanilla. Niall thinks it fits ― of course it fits. Harry and Lauren fit together so well it’s uncanny. “Go get dressed and let me use the toilet, and we’ll be off.”

Niall’s shoulders fall. He’s found being in an enclosed space with Harry makes it hard for him to control his raging attraction. “Okay.”

“That all right with you, Lauren?” Harry lets Niall go then, walks back toward Lauren and leans down, presses a hard kiss to her forehead as she giggles lightly. Niall’s heart bleeds at the sight. “You don’t mind me takin’ Ni to work, do you?”

She shakes her head.

Niall doesn’t have to be in Lauren’s position to know that Harry’s smiling like he’s just discovered the reason why everything is as it is now.

“When I get back, we’ll have fun, okay?”

Lauren nods, and Niall decides it’s time for him to go before he witnesses Harry fucking Lauren on the couch. Niall hurries out of the living room, scurries through the kitchen, hooks a left into the first corridor and barrels into his room, slamming the door shut.

Clothes are strewn all around; his desk is cluttered with thick applications and ripped notebook pages and chipped pencils and dog-eared novels. His bed is unmade and his pillows are all over; his laptop is sitting on the floor next to his nightstand, half-open and surely dead, and his closet is almost empty, and it’s sad. It’s sad because he’s twenty-two with a shitty job while Harry’s a highly-paid intern at a music production company and Zayn’s publishing his illustrations in his sister’s books and Liam’s quickly moving his way up in the office his father owns and Louis’s drawing blueprints for the third building he’s in charge of creating since graduation six months ago.

Niall’s a bag boy at a supermarket where the employees have to wear an ugly red polo and forced smile. It’s hard being unsuccessful when all his friends are killing it.

He sighs, shakes his head and rips his dirty hoodie off; he grabs a broken stick of deodorant and applies a heavy amount before snatching his freshly-washed polo ― thank you, Harry ― and slipping it on. A spray of cologne masks the lavender smell and he inhales, tries to remember a time when Lauren didn’t know Harry, tries to remember a time when they were all five together and living it up in university, tries to remember a time when he thought he had a chance with Harry.

But that’s all shattered when there’s a knock on his door, echoed by Lauren saying, “Niall, are you ready? Harry wants to get back before it starts raining.”

He’s deflated. Niall’s a deflated balloon with blond-brown hair and purple bags of exhaustion under his dull eyes who’s falling in love with his best friend, with his cousin’s boyfriend.

“Coming.”


	3. three

An old Bruce Springsteen song is playing softly on the radio; Harry’s tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, singing beneath his breath to ‘I’m On Fire’ as if he’s back in 1985 and hearing it for the first time, allowing his mind to wander as he eases down the crowded, sweating highway. Vehicles are lined up on either side, both moving and stationary, and people on the walks are bundled up with cute umbrellas pulled out to fend off the pitter-patter of sprinkling rain that’s dropping down like a translucent sheet.

He smiles ― because he’s happy, because he’s got his best friend right next to him and his girlfriend is waiting on him back at home and he doesn’t have to want for anything. Life is good ― life is fucking great. It’s all that he’s ever wanted, and he feels good ― _so good_.

Bruce’s voice is abruptly turned down all of a sudden, and Harry’s smile fades as he gazes at Niall out of the corner of his eyes. “Ni?”

“Hmm?” Niall hums in response, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes; he’s slumping in the seat, dressed in that cute red polo that makes his pink cheeks pop like cotton candy, and his head is laid against the chilly window as he doodles absently in the fog his breath leaves on the glass.

“Why’d you turn it down?” Harry asks, and his level of confusion is thick and high. “You love Bruce.” Niall loves Bruce Springsteen more than he loves Harry, it seems. “What’s wrong? You feeling okay?”

Niall shrugs, sighs and straightens his posture, flashing Harry an award-winning smile that looks like shit; Harry much rather prefers the sloppiness, the messiness over organization, especially if it’s involving Niall because Niall is as messy and sloppy as they come. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? ‘Cause you know you can call in today. You don’t have to work. Missing one day won’t hurt anything, Ni.” And besides, Harry’s not gotten to see his best friend in a while ― he misses Niall.

Niall’s jaw locks and his ears turn raging red, and Harry knows he’s hit something inside, struck a vibrating chord; his neck prickles and he feels an apology on the tip of his tongue but he can’t force it out because he isn’t sorry, not really. If Niall’s not feeling up to par ― if Niall isn’t in any way feeling at least eighty percent of himself, he doesn’t have to do anything. He doesn’t have to work, doesn’t have to wear proper clothes, doesn’t have to brush his hair. If he’s feeling even the slightest bit bad, he doesn’t have to anything at all ― because Harry will do it all, and Lauren, too. They love Niall; they’d do anything for Niall. Absolutely _anything_.

Because they love Niall, because Niall is the brother Harry’s always wanted and Niall is Lauren’s family, her cousin. Of course they’d do anything for Niall ― as he would them. It’s been confirmed loads and loads and loads of times. They can go days, weeks, months without talking, and if one were to ever call the other up, everything would be dropped instantly. It’s the kind of relationship that won’t change ― through miles and miles and miles, nothing will ever change.

“Yeah.” Niall nods, sighs, drops his head back against the window and stares out at the rushing buildings and stooping people and drizzling rain and bustling city life. “Just a little sleepy, is all.”

Harry’s brows knit together as he tries to put two and two together, but comes up with nothing. He’s never been particularly good at math ― besides, he wasn’t at home yesterday, decided to spend the night over at Lauren’s flat after an evening in, drinking and cooking and watching stupid Halloween movies she had recorded from October till they clumsily fell asleep on the sofa together. He totally forgot about Niall, totally forgot about the dinner Niall was cooking to celebrate Harry’s new promotion at the production office.

Or was that last week?

Harry can never remember anymore, find it hard to recall three days before after he spent a night with Lauren. She’s got a wonderfully whimsical way of making him forget the things he really, really shouldn’t ― she’s his first priority, and his second and third, fourth and fifth and sixth, too. She’s all that matters.

Well, that’s not true. Niall matters. Louis, Liam, and Zayn matter. His mum and sister and dad and stepdad and stepsister and stepbrother matter. Everybody matters ― but Lauren matters just a little bit more, for the most part.

He’s in love with her. Of course she means more to him than Niall. That goes without saying, really.

But Niall is his best friend. Niall’s seen him at his worst and at his best, and he hasn’t left. Harry loves Niall just as much as he loves Gemma ― Niall is the brother he’s never had but always, always wanted.

“Why not?” he asks.

Again, Niall shrugs and Harry’s smile wanes as he quickly catches a glimpse of the light lavender-colored bags of exhaustion beneath Niall’s blue, blue eyes. “Just… haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately, I guess,” is Niall’s answer, and it’s an honest one, probably, but Harry doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the way it sounds like a lie that’s the product of hundreds of lies before. “And Christmas is coming up, too, so that’s a lot of added stress.”

Finally ― _finally_ , there’s something Harry can talk about with Niall without having the urge to rip his hair out because he’s doing it all wrong.

“What are you going to get everybody?”

Niall scoffs and flicks a calculative look at Harry, which Harry responds to with a cheeky smile. “Can’t tell ya that, idiot,” Niall says around a bit of muffled laughter, and Harry relaxes his shoulders, lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding ― because Niall’s voice isn’t monotone or sad anymore; it’s happy and light and airy with mirth, and that’s one of Harry’s favorite sounds. Niall being happy is one of Harry’s favorite things because they’ve not known each other long, really, but they’ve known one another enough for Harry to love Niall like the brother he never had.

“You can tell me what you’re getting everybody else, though,” Harry points out with a sneaky smile as he pulls up at a red light, easing to a stop; his lips are as good as sealed if Niall lets him in on the secret because Niall already knows what Harry’s getting everybody for Christmas. Except for Lauren, though, because that’s a surprise ― one Niall’s going to help him out with soon. “I mean, that’s not gonna give anything away, is it?”

Niall shakes his head. “’Course not.” His smile is brighter than a thousand suns, Harry thinks, more luminescent than even the biggest star. “I think… Louis’s having a kid, ya know, and ― and I like the idea of getting him and his baby something, like, matching. A shirt or something, or even a blanket or whole outfit. But I think I’ll just get a bassinet ‘cause that seems kind of thoughtful, I guess.”

Harry nods. “Cute.” And it is. It came as a shock to them all when they discovered Louis is to be a father, but now that they’ve had some time to process everything, the level of excitement between Harry and Niall and Liam and Zayn is one that rivals Louis’s. Louis’s a dad, but Harry and the other three are uncles, and that’s ― that’s just great. That’s really great.

Babystagram is coming.

“And Zayn’s been illustrating a lot for his sister, painting and stuff, and I want to get him a gift card so he can fill up his closet again because he’s been messing up his clothes.” Niall makes a face, shrugs. “I mean, it’s hard to shop for Zayn. It’s really difficult ― worse than shopping for you.”

“Hey! Be nice!”

Niall giggles. “Just kidding, s’all.” Niall flashes Harry a smile and then continues to look out into the world. “Liam’s been working really, really hard lately, and I know Drake’s coming to the O2 soon, and I want to get him some tickets for the show. Maybe he can take a friend or something, chill after spending five days in an office around people who are twice his age. I think it’ll do him good to hang out with a friend after Sophia and him split.”

“He’ll probably take you,” Harry interjects ― because he knows Niall’s so happy-go-luck, so laid back, that he would do anything, really. And that thought has always brought a smile to Harry’s face. “Probably you. Now, what’re you getting Lauren?”

Niall’s smile falls, and he purses his lips, begins to draw little doodles on the condensation again. “Maybe,” he replies, faint and airy, and Harry’s stomach clenches. “And I don’t know yet. Still deciding. She’s kind of hard to shop for, too.”

He wonders if it was him, wonders if it was something he said that made Niall suddenly lose his happiness, wonders if there’s anything he can do to make Niall joyous again. It’s been like this for a while ― months, it feels like ― and it hurts Harry in ways he’s never thought he could hurt. Seeing a parent or sibling cry hurts, seeing a significant other cry hurts, seeing a stranger cry hurts, and seeing your best friend cry hurts, too. The level of pain is indescribable, and dry crying is as real as dry lightning.

It kind of makes Harry want to cry, too. Wet cry, with snotty noses and ugly red faces and everything else.

“Niall?”

Niall turns to him, sniffles and wipes at his nose, and Niall’s a really good actor. “Yeah?”

Harry’s eyes narrow and he takes his foot off the gas, allows the vehicle to slow as he flicks on the blinker to enter the crowded parking lot of the supermarket. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” Niall nods, hurrying to unbuckle his seatbelt; he unlocks the door before Harry’s come to a complete stop, and is out immediately, adjusting his jeans and the red polo that Harry absolutely adores as the color darkens with the heavier rain. “Just ― will you pick me up when my shift’s over?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods, sighs; he’s a slumped mess of defeat and he wants to go back home, wants to send Lauren away for the night, wants to crawl into bed, wants to do nothing and be nothing and eat nothing and listen to nothing till he finally knows something. “Call me when you’re ready, okay?”

“M’kay.”

-

Lauren meets Harry at the door, and she’s changed into cotton shorts and fuzzy socks and one of Harry’s many button downs, and she’s so, so cute in a ruffled way that makes his head spin for a completely different reason than Niall because he loves her more than he’s ever loved anyone.

“Oh, baby, you’re soaked.” She shuts the door behind him, takes off his coat and hangs it up on the rack to dry out; her hands are warm and small on his back, rubbing through the thin t-shirt and he shivers from the difference in temperature. “Come on, and let’s get you changed before you get sick.”

“Lauren.” Harry puts his hand out and grabs her wrist, pulling her closer. He’s firm but gentle, and the look in her eyes makes him wonder what she sees in him, makes him wonder why she’s still with an emotional fuck-up who pissed his bed till he was fifteen when she can easily be with anybody she wants. “What’s wrong with Niall?”

She sighs and her shoulders drop, and she bites her lip, interlacing their fingers. “You noticed it too, then?”

Harry can only hum in response because he’s afraid of the thoughts spiraling around in his mind. He’s worried about Niall, worried about his brother-who-isn’t-really-a-brother, and just wants to know why Niall’s going down in flames when Harry’s soaring through the clouds of a raging hurricane.

“Let’s go to the living room,” Lauren says, and she begins to walk, pulling Harry behind her, and he stumbles, head in the clouds and heart on the ground and soul wherever it is that Niall is at the moment, and he doesn’t realize they’re sitting on the loveseat till Lauren grabs both of his hands and folds them inside of hers. “I didn’t want to say anything, but… do you think maybe it’s us? Do you think he’s uncomfortable around us?”

Harry is immediate to shake his head because he knows that’s not it, because he’s positive that Niall has no problem being around him and Lauren. “That’s not it. He doesn’t much care, I don’t think.” Harry’s lips quirk into a little smile, and he leans over to place his lips on Lauren’s temple, kissing her gently. “I mean, he’s the one that introduced us, after all. And he was the driver during our first date. I don’t think he cares if he’s with us either way.”

She sighs, falls into Harry’s side and makes herself comfortable. “What do you think it is, then?”

He shuts his eyes and drops his cheek against the top of her head, and her light, honey-colored hair smells like paradise. He feels weird ― Niall was acting weird, and now Harry feels weird, and everything is just kind of weird, really. There’s no explanation to describe what he’s feeling because he doesn’t know ― but Niall does. Niall knows. He’s not going to say, though, and that’s shit ― because keeping your best friend in the dark when he can help you reach the light kind of defeats the purpose of having a friend, right?

“Do you… do you think it’s because he’s feeling down?”

Harry opens one eye and stares up at the ceiling, connecting the cracked lines with one another. “Down in what way?”

Lauren shrugs, and it’s a movement that he feels on a whole different level than simply physical. “I mean, it’s been almost six months since you all graduated university, and he’s the only one who hasn’t found a steady job.”

“But he has.” Harry frowns. “He does have a job.”

Lauren scoffs. “Yeah, at the _supermarket_ ,” she points out, and Harry’s frown deepens. “But he didn’t go to school to work at a store. He went to university to teach art ― he loves drawing and painting and creating, and he can’t do that because art is an unappreciated joy to the world. He wants to make a difference, but people won’t let him. And that probably makes him feel useless.”

Her words make Harry think, and think and think and think some more. Now that it’s brought to his attention, now that he can sit down and reevaluate a few things, he kind of thinks Lauren’s right ― Niall’s sad, borderline depressed because he can’t find any work, and Lauren’s right, and Harry never noticed, and the cluster fuck in his mind is a mess.

“Lauren ―”

“We can help make it better, Harry,” she interrupts him and pulls back, and the smile on her face is tentative in a way that makes Harry wonder where he’s failed at in the great scheme of things. “We can help him, Harry.”

He shoves his hand through his wet hair and jerks at the long tendrils as if ripping his curls out will make things better, will make him feel less weird. “How?”

She grins, and her teeth are sparkling white, and Harry knows that she’s gotten them professionally cleaned recently, and there’s so, so different compared to Niall’s normal-looking smile. “Let’s make him a cake.”

Harry grins, cynically so, and says, “A cake?”

She nods and moves to sit on her knees before him; the shirt she’s got on isn’t buttoned all the way and he can see that she’s not wearing a bra, and Harry’s torn between wanting to make Niall feel good and wanting to make Lauren feel good.

“Yes!” she exclaims, and her giddy excitement makes Harry smile till his cheeks hurt. “I’ve not baked in so long, and now I really, really want to.”

Harry can’t tell her no. “Okay.”

And they do. They get up, and Harry changes into loose sweatpants and a too-worn, well-washed black tank top, and they make a sprinkled cake topped with shredded coconut pieces mixed into homemade chocolate icing, and once it’s taken out of the oven to cool they go into the living room and kiss and touch and make love till they fall asleep on one another, in one another, surrounded by the thick, warm blankets and the smell of baked goodies.

 

 


	4. four

Harry’s sleeping softly, gently, tenderly, warm and serene and peaceful ― but then there’s a loud bang, and a door is slammed shut, and Lauren makes a noise from where she’s laid atop Harry’s chest. And another bang is heard, and Lauren falls off of Harry’s chest, covering her nudity up with the throw blanket Niall tossed over the back of the sofa earlier, and Harry’s jumping up, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and grabbing his boxers off of the ottoman, jerking them on as Lauren scrambles to find her shirt and panties.

“Harry?”

 _Niall_.

It’s Niall, and his voice is thick, heavy and hoarse, and Lauren is fast, so fast, as she tugs on her panties and messily buttons up Harry’s shirt, and Harry’s tripping over his big feet as he tries to slip on his boxers, tries to cover his shame. He glances toward the windows, sees that it’s pitch dark outside and that the pitter-patter of a steady rain is still beating against the world; his eyes flitter to the digital clock sat on the mantle, and he curses under his breath once he realizes what he’s done.

It’s past midnight. It’s one a.m. in the morning.

And Niall had to walk home in the rain. He walked home, didn’t he?

Because Harry fell asleep after fucking Lauren.

This can’t be happening. _Holy shit_ ― this _cannot_ be happening.

“Harry, you home?”

Niall sounds sick ― so sick, so wet, so sad and hurt and letdown and depressed, and Harry’s completely awed at his ability to fuck everything up when he thought he had it all under control.

“Niall?” he calls, and Lauren gives him a sorrowful looks as she scurries out of the room and down the corridor, heading toward the opposite side of the house where Harry’s bedroom is; he lets out a sigh of relief because he doesn’t really want Niall to know that the reason he was left behind is that Harry was too busy fucking his girlfriend to even know what world he’s in. “Yeah, I’m here. ‘M in the living room.”

And Niall turns the corner of the foyer, and his blond-brown hair is damp, falling over his forehead, and his too-blue, too-pained eyes are glossy, glassy and red; his clothes are wet and his socks are leaving a puddle on the hardwood floor and he’s shivering, shaking and shuddering and futilely wiping at the water that’s itching at his pink nose.

“You forgot me.”

It breaks Harry’s heart, leaves a sour, acidic taste in his mouth ― because he did, because he forgot Niall, because Niall had to walk home in the rain. Harry’s sad and upset and pissed off because he’s a shitty friend, because Niall can do so, so much better than him. And he wonders why Niall’s never left, wonders what’s kept Niall by his side through the four years they’ve known each other ― because Harry’s a good person, yes, but he’s not the best, and Niall is an angel, a gift to the earth crafted by the highest being.

Niall is an _angel_ , and ― and Harry’s the demon that’s taking away Niall’s light.

_Oh my God._

“I… I ― yeah, I did,” Harry replies, stutters, and the darkness in his tummy is quickly rising to completely overtake him. “I just ― I guess I ― I got distracted and… and lost track of time.”

Niall shakes his head, and the soft, sad smile on his face almost brings Harry to his knees, almost makes Harry throw his head back and repent for all the shitty things he’s done lately.

“S’okay, H,” Niall retorts, and Harry’s always hated being called that, always thought it made him sound like a dick, but when Niall says it it’s okay. It’s okay because the affection behind the endearment in Niall’s voice is so raw, so real and true and gentle, and Harry likes the way it sounds on Niall’s tongue. “I’m not mad. I just wish you’d answered your phone ‘cause I didn’t know if you’d made it home in the rain.”

And ― and it’s just like Niall to be worried about Harry’s safety and wellbeing when it’s him that was forgotten, when it’s him that had to walk home in the rain, when it’s him that’s probably going to catch a cold because his shitty best friend can’t take his head out of his own ass to even attempt to care.

It just furthers Harry’s assumptions: Niall is an actual angel. He’s the sweetest non-celestial being this world will ever see.

“Oh, Niall.”

Harry takes a step forward, arms stretched out wide, but Niall shakes his head, moves away, and begins to wipe furiously at his eyes; his shoulders shake and his bottom lip wobbles and Harry knows he’s about to cry, and Harry reckons he’s almost ready to sob, too.

He slips his fingers into the belt loops of Niall’s jeans and tugs, pulls Niall out of the living room and into the kitchen; Harry flicks on the light, pushes Niall toward the island in the middle, and helps Niall to sit up on one of the five stools. There’s a mess strewn about ― eggs and flour and coconut pieces are randomly flaking the countertops; random bits of homemade icing and crusty batter are smeared along the cabinets, and Harry refuses to look at the mounting pile of dishes in the sink.

And Niall’s eyes take it all in with a finality that makes Harry want to burn the entire world to the ground if it means he can grab Niall’s hand and pull him up out of the ashes and embers.

“You and Lauren baked,” Niall muses, and his voice is gentle, heavy with exhaustion; Harry’s shoulders slump at the wet smile on Niall’s lips, and he removes his fingers, shoves them into his hair and tugs. Hard. “D’you have fun?”

The thing is, Niall’s a sweetheart. He’s an absolute doll, a sunshine that can chase away any type of darkness; he never judges, never blames, never degrades. He likes things clean but not necessarily extremely organized; he likes cold milk and hot tea, cold beer and hot chocolate, cold dips in the lake and hot soaks in the tub. Niall’s an angel, a king, a sunshine, and he’s not even mad at Harry for forgetting him when Harry knows he would be raising hell if their roles were reversed.

“We baked you a cake,” Harry announces, and it tastes bad on his tongue, sounds stupid coming out of his mouth. He shakes his head in hopes of clearing his mind, but it helps none, especially when he knows that Lauren’s in his room dressing, especially when he knows that Niall knows why he was left behind. “We ― Lauren and I thought you might like something sweet to… to take your mind off things.”

Niall grins, and Harry’s heart deflates all the more. “Where’s it at?” he asks; his blue eyes are still bloodshot and his face is still red, streaked with tears, and he’s still wet from the rain, but at least he’s smiling. At least it’s a real smile. “’M starving.”

Harry chuckles, allows himself to feel a rainbow of happiness when everything else is bathed in black and white. “It’s on the counter,” he says, pivots on his bare heel and jogs toward the pan of coconut cake, lifting off the tinfoil and picking it up, turning to face Niall. “And it’s coconut cake ― you’re favorite.”

And Niall’s face falls, and Harry wonders what he’s done this time, wonders if there’s anything he can do to make Niall feel even a little bit better.

“Harry.” Niall’s voice is firm ― firm, but it’s cracking, breaking, fragmenting. And Harry’s going to cry. He’s going to fucking cry. “Harry, I’m allergic to coconuts.”

_What the fuck?_

“What? No. No, that’s not right.” Harry groans, shakes his head and tosses the cake back onto the counter; it’s a loud bang that makes Niall flinch and Harry curse. “You ― you love coconut. You told me so.”

But Niall’s shaking his head, shutting his eyes, and his bottom lip is wobbling again, and ― and he’s about to cry again. Holy shit, he’s going to cry, and it’s Harry’s fault. It’s always Harry’s fault.

“No, Harry. My favorite cake is carrot, not coconut. I’m allergic to coconut.” _And you know this._

Harry knows this. Thinking back now, picking through all the memories they’ve made with one another over the four years since they’ve met, Harry realizes that yes, he does know, that yes, Niall is in fact allergic to coconuts, that Niall’s favorite cake is indeed carrot.

He’s a shitty friend. He’s the absolute worst.

And what he’s feeling in the pit of his stomach is disgusting. He’s disgusted with himself; he’s upset and angry and sad, and they’re not the best combination, and he feels nasty, so nasty, for forgetting something as important as a food allergen. He can’t even fathom what would’ve happened had he used the shaved coconut pieces for something other than a cake, can’t imagine what would’ve happened had Niall not caught Harry’s epic fuck-up.

“Niall ―”

“Harry?”

It’s Lauren, and Harry jerks around to look at his girlfriend where she’s stood in the doorway of the corridor. She’s wearing what she came here in: tennis shoes, gray sweatpants, and a white t-shirt that’s covered with one of Harry’s many hoodies. Her hair is pulled up into a floppy bun and her lips are still red from Harry’s kisses; there’s a smarting of a bruise on her neck where Harry sucked and sucked and sucked till she climaxed for the third time, and Harry wants to feel proud of the noticeable mark he left behind but he can’t because it’s part of the reason why Niall was forgotten.

He was too busy fucking Lauren to remember that he had a best friend that really, really needed him.

It sounds worse every time he thinks it.

“Hi, baby.” Harry walks toward her, wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in for a half-hearted hug. “Sleep well?”

Lauren gives him a peculiar look and then flashes her gaze toward Niall, and Harry ignores Niall’s eyes, ignores Niall’s frown, ignores the fact that Niall knows he’s lying, and leans close, presses his lips to Lauren’s forehead in a hard kiss.

“I ― yeah,” she replies, inquisitive and kind of annoyed, but at least she’s playing the part, at least she’s going along with it. “I slept okay.” She pulls away from Harry, gives Niall a warm smile and supportive look. “Hi, Ni. How was work?”

Niall sighs, shrugs. “It was okay,” he replies, and Harry pokes around in his brain for the last time he asked Niall how work was, and he comes up empty because he doesn’t think he ever has, really. “I didn’t have to clean up vomit this time.”

“That’s good.” Lauren chuckles as if she’s in on a joke with Niall and Harry frowns because it should be the other way around. Lauren should be the outsider looking in on Harry and Niall’s perfect friendship when, in reality, everything is a fucked up mess and Harry’s the biggest part of the problem.

“I’m gonna go get changed and shower,” Niall announces, wiping at his eyes and sniffling; he moves forward, eases around behind Lauren, and then he’s down the hall, headed toward his bedroom, and Harry’s left to wonder just when Niall’s tight jeans became so loose.

He sighs and turns back to Lauren. “Baby, I’m ―”

“No,” she cuts him off, stern and brick-like. “Why’d you lie to him?”

Harry shrugs ― because he doesn’t know, because it seemed like the best idea at the time. “I don’t ― I just did.”

“You’re an ass.” She scoffs. “I heard, by the way. And I can’t believe I forgot he was allergic to coconuts. I’ve been around him my whole life ― I know he’s allergic but I still let you make the damn cake.” She shakes her head and groans; her eyes are tired and her kiss-red lips are turned down in a frown. “We’re shit, aren’t we?”

No. Harry’s shit, yes, but Lauren? No ― _never_.

“I’ll fix it,” Harry says, cupping Lauren’s face in his hands and leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. She tastes like sweat and sex and salty love, and Harry sighs because it’s definitely something he’s become accustomed to over the months they’ve been together. “I’ll fix it, and everything will be okay. Okay?”

She nods, shuts her eyes and wraps her arms around Harry’s waist in a tight hug. “I know you will,” she says into his chest, presses a hard kiss to his beating heart before pulling away. “I’m gonna head home, all right? There’s a bit of paperwork I need to do before I go into the office tomorrow.”

Harry nods. “Be careful, baby girl.”

She smiles. “I will. Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Harry turns then, knows Lauren’s more than capable of letting herself out and getting to her car safely ― the fresh bottle of pepper spray in her purse is a nice little alleviation, and the fact that she’s an avid member of the gym is another ― and jogs down the hall, toward Niall’s closed door. He doesn’t knock, opting to instead grab the knob and open the door wide, and he’s not really surprised at the sight he sees.

Niall’s naked save for a pair of dry, loose gray boxers, laid out atop his bed, sprawled-eagle; his arms are tucked under his pillow and his face is smashed into the fluffy softness. The thick, gray-blue blankets and matching sheets are curled and ratted and tangled at his feet, and Harry frowns because Niall ought to at least be covering up if he isn’t showering.

“Ni?”

“Shh,” Niall hushes him, and his voice is thick. Harry shuts his eyes and breathes deeply to hold in his hot tears. “I’m sleeping.”

“You aren’t, either,” Harry replies, and he sounds like a child, really, but that’s okay. “You’re the worst liar ever.”

“Maybe.” Niall shrugs. “Wanna come lay with me?”

Harry is so, so glad Niall asked because that’s honestly the only thing he wants.

He shuts the door and moves toward Niall’s bed, happy he’s only in his underwear, and crawls onto the mattress, fitting himself against Niall completely. His arms come up and wrap around Niall’s torso, pulling him close, and his feet tangle with Niall’s, and Harry rubs and rubs and rubs till the chill bumps on Niall’s skin are as invisible as the wounds on Harry’s heart.

“I’m sorry, Niall,” Harry whispers, reckons because it’s dark and cold and late that it isn’t really acceptable to be louder than a certain decibel. “I’m so sorry I forgot ―”

“Why’d you lie?”

Harry freezes. “About what?”

Niall huffs, rolls over and meets Harry’s eyes, and it’s dark in the room but there’s enough light for Harry to see Niall’s glowing, glimmering eyes. “Why’d you lie about you and Lauren taking a nap? I mean, it’s obvious you two went at it, you know.” Niall’s lips screw into a smirk. “There’s dried cum on your tummy, silly boy.”

Oh. _Oh, fuck_. He should’ve known that; his climaxes have always been messy, smeared and sticky. Of course Niall saw that ― _of course._

“I’m sorry, Niall,” Harry says, and really, it’s all he can say. He’s sorry for being a shitty friend, sorry for forgetting Niall, sorry for baking a coconut cake when it should’ve been a carrot cake, sorry for lying, sorry for everything. He is so, so _sorry_. “I just ― fuck, I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Niall nods, ruts closer and buries his face into Harry’s shoulder, keeps his nose pressed firmly into Harry’s neck. “I know, and it’s okay. I forgive you.”

But it’s not, and he shouldn’t.

Harry doesn’t tell him that, though.

He just nods, holds Niall tight; he lays his cheek against Niall’s temple, throws one leg over Niall’s and parts his thighs for maximum comfort before reaching down and grabbing a fistful of the sheets, laying a gentle cover over their shivering, filthy bodies.

Nothing is okay ― nothing is okay, but in this moment, between the sheets and cuddled as close to one another as they possibly can be, everything feels right.

 


	5. five

Niall shoves his fingers in the waistband of his sweats and pushes them down to where they’re gathered around his ankles in a pool of blue-gray; he grabs his sweatshirt, yanks it up and over his head and tosses it into the dirty clothes bin, and then there’s an abrupt knock on the door that makes him jerk and stub his toe on the base of the countertop before he can finish undressing.

“Niall?” It’s Harry, soft and slow and sweet.

Niall curses and spins, leaning against the countertop to take a bit of weight off of his smarting toe. “Yeah?” he calls in return. “’M ‘bout to take a shower, Harry.”

The sound of shuffling feet is heard, and then Harry’s saying, “That’s okay. I was just wondering if you’d like to go out tonight with me.”

Immediately, Niall’s eyes narrow and the pain in his throbbing toe isn’t near as intense as it was only moments before. His eyes crinkle, and all he can think about is not having his phone calls answered, being forgotten, having to walk home in the rain, and calling Harry out on his lying as they were lied together, tangled between the sheets and each other. He’s confused ― confused, and definitely irritated, but mostly just sleepy and tired. He slept wonderfully last night, wrapped up in Harry’s arms, but even that did nothing to diminish the heavy exhaustion floating through his body.

“Isn’t Lauren here?” he asks, kind of miffed; he loves his cousin ―  _he does_  ― and he doesn’t want to leave her here by herself because Harry did say ‘with me’ instead of ‘with us’. It isn’t very fair of him or of Harry. “We ― you shouldn’t leave her behind.”

Damn, but Niall deserves an award for putting others before him, doesn’t he?

“Not anymore, no,” Harry replies, and there’s a thud on the other side, and Niall reckons Harry’s leaning up against the door lazily, languidly, and he knows Harry’s arms are crossed, knows there’s a warm smile on his face. The thought makes Niall want to screech. “I told her to leave.”

Told?  _Told_ , not asked?

_Oh, my._

“She’s got tons of paperwork to fill out, anyway,” Harry adds, and Niall’s big chest deflates. Even when he’s thinking about Niall, Harry’s main priority is Lauren. Of course. “I don’t want her up any later than she has to be, ya know?”

Niall nods. He knows because Harry is the one who made sure Niall got at least four hours of sleep every night, even during finals. Harry’s the one who took care of Niall when Niall couldn’t take care of himself.

“Yeah, I understand.”

“So… is that a yes?”

Harry’s persistent today, isn’t he?

Niall sighs; he wants to spend time with Harry and hang out like they used to before Lauren, but he doesn’t want to go out. A simple night in with crummy films and nasty mixed drinks would do. “What do you have in mind?”

“A club maybe… or a night at the pub; your choice. I just want to make up for last night, Ni.”

Of course ― of course Harry wants to right all the wrong he caused last night. Niall doesn’t blame him, either, knows of their roles were reversed he’d be doing whatever he could to earn Harry’s forgiveness. But their roles aren’t reversed, and Niall would’ve never forgotten Harry because Harry’s kind of unforgettable, too big and bold and boisterous to be overlooked.

“There’s a place a few streets down that has really good nachos, and they taste super amazing with beer, too,” Niall replies, thoughtful and calculative. He tries to remember why he knows this, tries to remember when he came to this conclusion. Nachos and beer? Okay; must’ve been one hell of a night if all he remembers his nachos and beer. “It’s got nice music, too.”

“You… You want to go?” Harry asks, tentatively, and he sounds surprised, as if he didn’t expect Niall to agree.

Niall didn’t want to, but he thinks it would be nice to be with Harry for a little while, even if it’s only for a night. They’ve not had a night to themselves in so, so long that Niall’s almost afraid Harry’s forgotten how to be with him without Lauren cuddled up to his side.

“Yeah.” He nods, forgets that Harry can’t see him, and shakes his head because he’s acting very, very idiotic. “Yeah, I’d like to. I’m gonna take a shower, though.” He feels dirty, damp and moldy; he didn’t take a shower when he got in, and rolling around in bed for two hours wasn’t very productive, either, and he doesn’t even want to comment on the way his stringy hair feels, refuses to think about the nastiness.

Which is Harry’s fault, too, for the most part. But Niall isn’t going to point fingers at anybody because that’s not the right thing to do, he doesn’t think.

“Can we leave when you get out?”

Niall’s not entirely sure what time it is because he slept in past noon and disregarded the digital clock on his bedside table, but he knows it’s just getting dark outside, and that’s primetime to start having fun for the night, to start letting go of all your worries for a while.

Besides, he’s off work tomorrow, and Harry doesn’t have to go in, either, because it’s his boss’s birthday, and though Harry’s been invited to the party, Niall’s not sure if he’s going to make it.

“Yeah, s’fine with me.” Niall toes out of his socks and shimmies down his boxers, wadding them up and tossing them into the hamper; he opens the cabinet and grabs out a big, fluffy maroon towel and lays it on the closed lid of the toilet, which is right beside the walk-in shower.

“So, like, we’ll leave in an hour?”

Niall rolls his shoulders and opens the shower door, reaching in and grabbing his empty shampoo bottle, tossing it into the waste bin; he’ll just have to use Harry’s or the several washes that the guys left over, which are stored underneath the sink. Niall found it kind of hard to toss out things that belonged to his friends when they moved; besides, when they come around, it’s nice to have something that’s theirs. “An hour and a half at the most, yeah.”

“Sounds good. I’m gonna grab a small bite to eat, and then I’ll get ready.”

Harry’s gone then, and Niall’s shoulders drop; he turns the shower on and fiddles with the knobs, finding the right setting that’s a nice medium between devil’s piss hot and frozen nut cold. He steps inside and shuts the blurry, bleary shower door; he stands beneath the warm, pattering stream and lets it soak his body, lets it create goosebumps on his skin, lets it wash all over him.

He’s reminded of the time he was baptized in Mullingar when he was eleven, when he was dunked beneath the sloshing waves of a green-colored creek, the same hue as Harry’s eyes on most days.

Niall sighs.

It’s foggy in the shower, and the liquid is swirling around at his feet, rushing to drain as if it’s the last thing it’ll ever do, and Niall watches it with a genuine curiosity because it reminds him of how he’s quickly, swiftly losing sanity like they’re losing water.

-

“Wow,” Harry immediately says as he swings the door of the pub wide, stepping through after Niall and letting it shut behind with a soft slam. “This place is fuckin’ packed.”

Niall nods; it is. Directly before them is a squared bar that stands in the absolute middle of the pub, and it’s elevated, with steps leading up to it; there are eleven bartenders behind the counter and they’re yelling, hollering, struggling to tend to all of the orders of the people sat on the red-padded stools. All around is the dancing space, and people are definitely throwing some crazy shapes; hugging the walls are high-backed, maroon booths that Niall’s stolen a few kisses in from random strangers.

Up above on the second story, there’s a large room filled with tables and another bar, though relatively smaller; there’s stairs on either side of the pub leading up to the space, as well as several pick-and-choose doors that lead to bathrooms and coat closets and storage. The food is on the second level.

It’s thick inside, dense and heavy with gyrating, drunk bodies, and it smells like sweat and beer and sex and weed, and it reminds Niall of his sixteenth birthday in Ireland, sat in the local pub with his whole family.

Good times. Great times.

Sometimes he wishes he could go back because he didn’t know Harry then and things were much simpler. But then he remembers all Harry has done for him and all he’s done for Harry, and he reckons that the now is a lot better than the then.

“Where to first?” Harry asks, putting his hand firmly on the small of Niall’s back. Harry looks good tonight, dressed in tight black jeans and dark brown boots and a charcoal-colored, silk-like button down that’s translucent enough to show the ink on his skin. He looks good, and the tattoos peeking out at the top are so, so hot. “You’re the man tonight, Ni.”

Niall’s chest puffs out. He is, isn’t he? Lauren isn’t here, and it’s just Harry and him, and he’s the man of the night because Harry said so.

“Upstairs,” Niall says.

Harry nods and trails his hand lower, just over the bump of Niall’s bum; his fingers thread through Niall’s belt loops and tug Niall close. Their shoulders bump, and Niall wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulders to steady his suddenly-wobbly knees, breathing hard and heavy and harsh.

He’s glad the music is loud. He’s glad Adele’s voice is very, very resounding in the tight pub.

Niall begins to walk forward, easing around the dancing bodies and swimming through the raging crowd, heading toward the set of stairs on the right; he ascends them two at a time, and Harry keeps up with his fast pace. The further up they go, the easier the atmosphere becomes, and Niall’s pleasantly happy to see that the upper room isn’t nearly as packed as downstairs, isn’t about to burst at the seams.

“Oh.” Harry stops, and his hold on Niall causes Niall to jerk to a halt, as well. “Oh, wow. This place is amazing.”

Niall smiles ― he did well. “You’ve not been here before?”

Harry shrugs and shakes his head, scratching the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t curled against Niall. “No,” he replies; his smile is radiant in the dimly-lit room, shining brighter than the glimmering chandeliers above. “But Lauren’s told me about it. I just never had time to come.”

Oh.  _Oh_. Well, at least Harry chose to come with Niall, at least Harry didn’t object when Niall decided on this place, at least Lauren isn’t here to badger and joke with Harry about the times he didn’t want to come and the one time he did.

Niall likes to think it’s because Harry’s with him, likes to think Harry only wanted to come because he’s with Niall, likes to think there’s still a few things he’d rather do with Niall than Lauren.

It’s one of the thoughts that keeps Niall’s mind grounded when all he wants to do is fly, fly away.

“You said you wanted nachos and beer, right?” Harry asks, nudging Niall’s shoulder with his, and Niall fights back a blush as he nods because Harry remembered. Harry remembered, and that’s something he hasn’t been very good at lately; he really is trying to make up for the mishap of yesterday. “To the bar, then?”

Harry uses his grip on Niall and tugs him forward, swimming through the tables and the few clustered groups of people sipping at dark brown beer bottles. The bar is in the center of the room, squared and cozy, and the stools that line the outer edges are tall and thick with a plush red cushion; Niall wriggles from Harry’s grip and hops onto the seat, spinning it around and folding his hands atop the counter.

A bartender strides toward him, and she’s a pretty girl with dark skin and even darker hair; she’s wearing heels high enough that Niall winces and light, faded blue jeans paired with a cream-colored shirt and leather jacket. She looks like a rockstar, looks like she doesn’t give a fuck, but the smile on her face is kind and Niall can’t help his grin in return.

“Hi, I’m Grace,” she introduces herself, holding her hand out for Niall to take; they shake, and her grip is firm but soft, and her palm is warm and smooth, a stark contrast to Harry’s clammy and calloused skin. “And tonight’s boring, so I guess I’ll just stick with the two of you.”

Niall nods and smiles. “Sounds good to me,” he replies; he likes her, likes her smile and pretty hair. Maybe he’s found another friend ― he’s fucking great at finding them. “I’m Niall, and this is Harry.”

“Hello,” she greets Harry and shakes his hand, and he nods in acknowledgement, looking over his shoulder and scanning the expanse of the room. Niall figures he’s looking for something but shrugs it off because this is his night to have fun, and he isn’t going to let Harry drag him down. “Are you two together?”

Niall blanches and shakes his head; he’s tongue-tied, too shocked to reply.

“No ―  _God,_ no,” Harry answers for the both of them with a snort and a bit of laughter, and Niall tries to avert his eyes, tries to hide the redness of his face, but Grace sees and gives him a calculative, inquisitive look. Is it really so bad to imagine the two of them together? Is Niall honestly that awful that it makes Harry sick to his stomach just thinking about a relationship with him? “We’re just roommates.”

Yeah, roommates.  _Just_ roommates.

And that’s all they’ll ever be, too, because Niall’s scared to go after what he wants and Harry has no idea that he’s what’s wanted the most.

Niall’s on fire with the realization that he’s nothing ―  _nothing_ ― but a fucking roommate. Wow.

“I’m gonna go to the toilet, ‘kay, Ni?” Harry announces, slapping Niall gently on the back, thumbing through the maroon button down Niall’s wearing. “I’ll be right back.”

Niall nods, but doesn’t say a word; Harry scratches Niall’s back and gives him a quick pat to the head, and then he’s gone and Niall can kind of breathe, can kind of imagine that he’s here alone, that he isn’t completely infatuated and enthralled with his best friend.

“He’s an asshole,” Grace says once Harry’s out of ear shot, weaving through the tables and heading toward a semi-hidden bathroom at the back. “What a dick.”

Niall shrugs. “It’s not his fault,” he replies, and why he’s defending Harry, he isn’t sure. It’s something he’s done for four years, almost ― Harry can handle himself, yes, but he’s quite hotheaded, definitely a bit messy with his emotions, and if he didn’t have Niall to take up for him, he probably wouldn’t be anywhere. “He doesn’t know.”

She reaches under the bar and brings out two shot glasses; she pulls a hot bottle of tequila from somewhere or another and pours the two cups full, topping off the brim. “Why doesn’t he know?” she asks, nudging one of the glasses toward Niall, who takes it with a sensitive hand and a tender mind.

He’s not sure why he’s telling her this, not sure why he’s letting a complete stranger into his fucked up situation, but it feels nice to get a little bit of it off of his chest, feels good to not be drowning and floating adrift in his mind.

“’Cause he’s dating my cousin,” Niall answers, bringing the liquor to his lips and drinking it in one shot; it’s hot, and it burns, but he shakes off the shiver of warmth and toughs the nastiness out. “And I introduced them.”

“Ouch.” She sips at her own shot, and Niall isn’t sure if there’s any regulations on whether or not an employee is allowed to drink on the job, but he pays no mind. “That’s shitty.”

He nods. “It’s pretty fuckin’ bad.”

There’s an abrupt tap on his shoulder, and Niall turns around to see three girls standing in front of him. They’re dressed sexily, in short black dresses, and their hair is let loose, flowing about, and they’re very beautiful, very smooth and shining, but Niall isn’t interested.

“Hello,” the one with reddish-blonde hair says; her hand’s still on his shoulder, and she lets it trail down his arm, stopping to grip his bicep. “I’m Maggie, and we saw you come in downstairs and followed you up. We were wondering if you’d like to dance with us?”

Grace scoffs and averts her gaze, sipping at her drink.

Niall smiles softly, politely, and shrugs off the girl’s touch. “Thank you for asking, but I’m not in the mood,” he shuts them down kindly, and the miffed expressions mirrored on each of their faces makes him want to itch his skin off. “I’m sorry, but there’s probably plenty of other people in here to dance with.”

“Why not?” another girl asks, and her hair is purple, light and lavender-like. “Do you have a girlfriend?” 

“Actually, he has a  _boyfriend_ ,” a familiar voice says from behind Niall, and then Harry’s arm is slinging around his shoulders and pulling him close. Harry bends down, presses his lips to Niall’s temple in a kiss that screams possession and strength, and Niall’s vibrating with lots and lots and lots of emotions and Grace is almost on her ass with laughter and the three girls are looking at him with wild eyes. “Hi, babe. Who are these ladies?”

Niall doesn’t know what to say. 

 


	6. six

Niall’s body tightens, tenses and strains, and he doesn’t offer any form of explanation, too preoccupied with staring at Harry as if he’s grown several new heads, but that’s okay because the three salaciously-dressed females in front of them aren’t afraid to speak up, aren’t afraid to shed light onto the uncomfortable situation.

“We just asked him to dance, is all,” one girl with solid black hair and a golden line of shadow across her eyes answers. “We didn’t do anything other than that.”

Except touch him, Harry adds, though he doesn’t say; Niall’s sensitive about who he lets touch him, always has been. It’s something Harry noticed the first day they met, when he went in for a hug after Niall caught him and Louis attempting to lock lips.

It didn’t work out very well because Harry bit Louis’s tongue and Niall actually cried at one point, though Harry still isn’t sure as to why.

But it’s all okay now because Harry got Niall out of the deal, and Louis got two lifelong friends to add to his existence, as well.

“And I do believe he said no,” Harry replies, steeling his voice and hardening his heart. He’s quite temperamental, really, and sometimes the littlest things can set him off, but oftentimes he can keep a reign in on himself nicely. But seeing Niall pressured and uncomfortable and icky-looking makes Harry’s blood boil like nothing else. “Now, it would be greatly appreciated if you three would leave so my boyfriend and I can enjoy our night out.”

The girl with blonde-red hair snarls and rolls her eyes. “What an ass.”

Niall’s hand flashes out and grips the inside of Harry’s leg, squeezing tight enough to cut the circulation off, it seems. Harry’s blood pressure is rising and everything in his vision is being smeared with red, red, red ― he doesn’t like seeing Niall so shaken and dependable because Niall is a thick totem of absolute strength; Niall’s an inspiration to Harry, and when Niall’s feeling down and out, Harry is, too. They’re intertwined with one another like the roots of two neighboring trees are: irrevocably, irreversibly.

“Ah, well,” Harry shrugs, “I reckon you are what you eat.” At his raunchy comment, the girls gasp collectively; Niall makes a noise and hides his face in Harry’s chest, and the girl behind the bar ― Grace, Harry recalls on a whim ― kind of falls over from laughter, though Harry doesn’t pay much mind to her as he brings his hand up and waves the intruders away. “Bye-bye.”

And they go. They pivot on their heels and scoff and walk away, and they’re sure to sway their hips, too, as if promoting what they think Niall’s missing out on. They go, and Harry’s grip loosens on Niall while Niall’s grip on him tightens.

The only thing Niall’s missing out on is a good time, and he wouldn’t find it with those girls, no doubt. Harry knows Niall’s simple, knows he’d rather just hang with Harry ― and Harry kind of made a promise to himself in the toilets a moment ago to make sure Niall enjoys himself tonight because he deserves it completely.

“Hey.” Harry puts his finger underneath Niall’s chin and lifts his face up, and his big blue eyes are larger than normal and the dusting of red is very noticeable in this dim lighting, very bright and vivid. “Hey, you all right?”

Niall hums and nods. “M’fine,” Niall replies, and his voice is kind of squeaky, kind of pitched high with whatever sort of emotion he’s full of. Harry doesn’t like the distress that’s smeared across Niall’s face still. “Just… D’you  _have_ to embarrass me like that, Harry?”

Harry rolls his eyes, throws his head back and laughs; he brings his arm up to curl it around Niall’s neck and pull him into a tight hug, pressing his nose into Niall’s hair. “It was that or something stupid, bub, and making fun of their laugh is kind of ignorant seeing as they never laughed, you know,” he says, slurs his words into Niall’s hair, which smells a lot like his shampoo. “You used my shampoo, didn’t you?”

Niall shrugs. “I ran out.”

“S’okay.” Harry pulls back, keeps his arm loosely wound around Niall as he sits and combs through the soft, silky hair at the nape of Niall’s neck. “We’ll go in tomorrow and pick up some more, okay? We’re running a bit low on groceries, anyway.”

“As long as you don’t forget about that like you did me.”

Harry looks down, lets his arm fall off of Niall’s shoulders; he refuses to look up and see the blush of mortification on Niall’s cheeks because Niall honestly has nothing to be sorry for. Everything that’s happened tonight and yesterday is Harry’s fault, and what happens tomorrow may be, too. But Niall has nothing to apologize for, nothing to be sorry over; an angel like him can do no wrong when it’s wicked devils like Harry who cause the most destruction and chaos.

“I’m sorry, Ni. I said I was sorry.”

“I know, Harry, I know,” Niall replies, quick and swift, and he’s nodding fast, so fast, gripping at the sleeve of Harry’s shirt with shaking fingers. “I know, and I’m sorry for bringing it up. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Harry shakes his head, offers Niall a smile ― but the smile is watery, and Harry’s eyes are burning, and he’s thankful it’s kind of dark in the room because he doesn’t want Niall to see his tears even though he deserves to cry for what he’s done. “You’ve not done a thing wrong.”

Niall’s fingers let go of Harry’s shirt, and Harry’s heart breaks, and he reaches out, wraps his hand loosely around Niall’s wrist so they’re touching physically if not mentally, so Harry doesn’t feel like he’s a spider weaving a web for catches that won’t come.

“But I brought it up.”

“Hush.” Harry’s stern but soft, tough but tender. “That doesn’t matter ― s’fine, okay?”

“But Harry, I ―”

“Easy little thing to push under the rug, ya know,” Harry intervenes, cuts Niall off with an award-winning smile and a careful caress to the wrist. “Grace, can you pour Ni and me something to drink, please?”

“Whatever you want is on the house tonight, boys,” she replies and nods, slapping her palms firmly against the bar; Harry notices a few rings on her fingers, and they’re thick like his, heavy-looking and engraved darkly. “I saw that little confrontation. Oscar-worthy, I’m telling you. I wish I would’ve caught it on camera.”

Harry grins and moves to sit onto the stool he was previously sat on; he keeps his grip on Niall’s wrist, keeps their touch hidden in his lap where he covers Niall’s hand with both of his. “You think so?” he asks, slanting his head. “It was pretty nice, looking back. We can recreate it if you want?”

“No.” Niall shakes his head. “No ―  _please_ , no.”

Grace quirks a brow at Harry before turning her attention to Niall. “What do you want to drink, Ni?” she asks, and Harry twitches, fights at the red surrounding his vision because that’s his nickname for Niall, that’s his term of endearment he calls Niall. “I can make close to anything.”

“Close?” Niall jokes and laughs lightly, hiding his chuckles with the hand that isn’t held by Harry, and Harry frowns, wants to berate Niall for hiding the noise because it’s honestly such a sweet, sweet sound. Harry doesn’t get to hear it often enough anymore, very much misses the lovely noise. “Where’s your manager? I need to have a word with them.”

She rolls her eyes and flips her hair out of her face, and Harry really, really hopes she isn’t flirting with Niall because Niall has too much going on in his life at the moment to entertain anybody romantically ― that, and Harry doesn’t want Niall to be in a relationship, doesn’t want anything to hinder their friendship further. It’s a selfish thing to hope for, to pray for, but Harry just wants everything to stay as it is because it’s perfect enough for him and he can make it better for Niall because he always makes it better for Niall.

“You’re looking at her,” Grace replies, and Harry kind of chokes on his spit.

“No fucking way,” Niall says, mystified, and Harry’s reminded of the conversation he and Lauren had last night about Niall’s dissatisfaction of not being successful, of not having a secure job. “You’re shitting me.”

Grace grins. “I’m completely not shitting you.”

“Can I have a draft beer, please?” Harry asks, polite and civil, but Grace is giving him a sour look and he’s kind of feeling it deep in his body, and he just really wants to change the subject, is all, just wants to divert the conversation from Niall’s lack of a career because he really, really wants Niall to have a good time tonight.

She nods, turns back to Niall.

Niall grins, and his teeth are clean, normal and not dazzling like Lauren’s. “I’ll have two piña coladas, please ― one for each hand.”

-

“Niall, get down.”

Niall’s on top of the bar now, and his shirt is unbuttoned halfway and the little tufts of hair on his chest are showing, and his smile is as radiant as the sun, and he’s going wild, throwing crazy shapes and kicking his feet to the beat of Queen; he’s garnered a crowd of people from downstairs and upstairs, too, and they’re mad, cheering him on and hollering for him to go, go, go.

But this isn’t safe; Niall’s already slipped and fallen once, and one tumble off the bar to the ground below will surely put a few knots in Niall’s back.

“Niall, get down,” Harry says again, softer and a little bit more subdued; he’s thought about calling Louis or Liam or Zayn, thought about ringing Lauren, but it’s late, nearing midnight, and he doesn’t want to disrupt their sleep on a Tuesday. He’s got to do this on his own. “Please, Ni. Get down.”

“No, Harry,” Niall replies, slurs his words; he draws out ‘no’ till it’s a string of drunk rainbows, says Harry’s name like ‘Harreh’, and it’s cute, kind of, but Harry can’t afford to allow his attention to be diverted when Niall’s very close to knocking himself down. “I wanna ― I wanna party and bullshit!” He burps and guffaws, and the words coming from the crowd behind and around make Harry cringe because they aren’t very supportive of Niall’s welfare. “Ya know, like the song!”

Harry shakes his head; he’s got a splitting headache and his feet hurt because the pair of boots he’s wearing aren’t completely broken in yet, and he wants to go home, wants to soak his abused heels and toes in some Epsom-salt water, wants to cuddle in his fuzzy bath robe and trade draft beer for hot chocolate and bar-top dancing for 90s movies.

But Niall’s not entirely on board with that idea just yet.

“Niall, baby, come on,” Harry says, begs, and he hears the pleading tone of his voice, hears the desperation. He just wants Niall down so they can go home together. “Please get down so we can go home. Please.”

“Niall, listen to Harry, all right?” Grace says, and it’s weird that she’s taking Harry’s side seeing as they’ve been sharing heated gazes the entire night, but Harry isn’t entirely angry over the fact. He guess he’ll take all the help he can get.

“No!” Niall answers again, and the hiccups that rattle his bared chest make his body quake. “You ― you meanie heads! It’s time to par-tay! Harry said I’m the man and I want to  _par-tay_!”

Harry curses under his breath, steps forward as Niall’s feet move dangerously close to the edge of the bar; it’s a wonder they’ve not been grabbed by security and escorted out of the place yet, in all honesty. 

“I did say you were the man,” Harry acquiesces, “but it’s time for the man to go home and sleep it off.”

Grace surprises Harry then and climbs up atop the bar; she grabs Niall’s shoulders and stills his shaking body, makes sure he isn’t about to fall off the edge of the counter before she gives Harry a look. “I’ll help him down if you make sure he doesn’t fall on his face.”

Harry nods, steps between two barstools and holds his arms out wide as Grace applies pressure to Niall’s shoulders, forcing him to bend and hunch and sit; Harry grabs Niall around the waist and plucks him up off the bar, holding him close as he sets Niall down on shaky knees.

Niall’s frowning when he looks at Harry, and his blue, blue eyes are bloodshot and there’s a thin layer of sweat covering his upper lip, and Harry’s not near drunk enough to be dealing with this. “You are mean,” he says, pouts and pushes out of Harry’s hold, crossing his arms over his chest. “You are so mean.”

Harry sighs. “Let’s go home, okay?”

“Why? So you can just ignore me some more?”

Okay. Okay ―  _what_?

Harry blinks, and he’s too enamored with Niall’s crinkled brow and pouted lips to offer a hand to help Grace in climbing down. “What are you talking about, Ni?” he asks, befuddled and very, very conquered. “I don’t ignore you.”

“Do so,” Niall insists like a child; Harry reaches out, puts his hand on Niall’s cheek, but Niall pulls away and scowls, and that stings Harry like a scorpion, like the most venomous snake bite. “You… When it’s you and Lauren, you ignore me loads. A lot. You ignore me very much. And ― and when it isn’t you and Lauren and home, it’s still you and Lauren ‘cause you’re never ever there. Like, ever.”

Oh.  _Oh_. Is this what Niall’s so tore up over then? Is he sad that Harry’s spending more time with Lauren than he is with Niall?

“Niall ―”

“Shush.” Niall shakes his head and grabs Harry’s hand, surging forward and shoving through the crowd like a barreling freight train. “S’not talk ‘bout it no more, ‘kay?”

No. No, Harry wants to talk about it, wants to get all this negative energy out into the open where it needs to be, where it won’t cower away in the darkness any longer; he wants to know what Niall’s thinking, wants to know why and how and when all of this started.

But he doesn’t say that.

Oh, no. Harry reckons he’ll do whatever he has to do to save face, to keep everything okay ― because Niall’s drunk, because he took full advantage of Grace’s declaration of everything being on the house, and he isn’t going to remember any of this tomorrow. Harry knows Niall isn’t going to remember because he knows Niall better than anybody.

_He does._

Harry takes over at the stairs, leading Niall down with a careful hand and whispered, encouraged words, and Niall’s making jokes about the stairs, shouting ‘sorry’ every time one tier creaks, and then they’re out of the door after shoving through bodies and bodies and bodies, and it isn’t as cold as Harry thought it would be, though the wind’s nipping at his skin through his shirt and Niall’s shivering and there’s dry lightning cracking across the sky and Harry can smell the rain as it quickly approaches.

“Cab or foot?”

Niall giggles. “Walkin’ is funner, Harry,” Niall replies, and Harry is ‘Harreh’ again, and Niall’s so cute, so fucking cute.

“You’re adorable, Ni,” Harry says, fixing their hands so their fingers can intertwine, so they can hold on tight, so Harry can keep Niall close on the congested sidewalk as they make their way toward their house. “You’re an angel.”

“’M I adorable enough for a kiss?”

Harry chuckles, leans over and puts a wet, sloppy kiss against Niall’s sweaty temple; he doesn’t think much of it because Niall’s been known to like kisses, been known to enjoy the little bit of affection from the sensitive touch of lips to skin.

Niall stops, forcing Harry to halt, too. “Not that kind of kiss, Harry,” he says, blinking once, and his eyes are clear but red, glossy and blue, and Harry sees a universe full of stars in their depths because Niall kind of is a universe full of stars at the moment.

“Niall…” Harry begins, but trails off; he isn’t drunk, per se ― three beers is nothing, really, and the stress of taking care of Niall has definitely destroyed what little buzz he found ― but he allows his mind to wonder, for a split second, what it would be like to kiss Niall, what it would be like to grab Niall by the hips and shove Niall against the side of the building and lick into his mouth till all they can taste is each other, before he shuts the idea down. “Niall, it’s late.”

“I’m just kiddin’, Harry!” Niall exclaims like a giddy schoolboy, and the smile on his face is brighter, stronger than diamonds. “Let’s go home now, m’kay? ‘M sleepy.”

“Yeah.” Harry nods and sighs; there’s a vivid crack of lightning in the sky, followed by a boom of thunder, and then one, two, three raindrops are hitting his cheeks, cooling off the red blush he didn’t know he had. “Let’s go home.” 

 


	7. seven

“Fuck you, Harry,” Niall seethes, kicks at the blankets wrapped around his feet and slings them off of the bed in a fit of exasperated temperament. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

“What?” Harry asks and blinks; he’s grinning, kind of, trying to hide the smile from Niall with the turkey sandwich that’s in his hand, but Niall sees it and it makes him all the more mad, all the more furious. “What’ve I done today?”

Because he does something every day, doesn’t he?

Niall grunts and rolls over, grappling for the trash bin next to his bed, jerking it close in case he vomits again; he doesn’t think he has it in him to rush to the bathroom on hurt legs. “You know what you’ve done,” Niall replies, sassy and sour, and he’s being a dick, that’s for sure, but it’s Harry’s fault he’s in this state, Harry’s fault he feels like he’s pregnant and experiencing morning sickness for the first time. Or, he imagines this is how morning sickness feels; he doesn’t think he’ll ever have the chance to be pregnant to know, really, considering he’s a male and all. However, science may surprise him. “This is all your fault. Dick.”

“Niall.” Harry’s laughing now, giggling at Niall’s pain, and Niall wants to punch him in the throat, wants to hit him where it hurts the most, but his legs are achy and his knees are crying and he doesn’t want to fall over like he did earlier, racing to the bathroom so he didn’t soil his bed. “What are you going on about today, baby?”

Baby? Again with the ‘baby’ thing?

This needs to stop. This needs to stop right now. Niall’s sick, yes, and hungover, too, and kind of depressed, as well, but he knows Harry needs to stop ‘babying’ Niall before Niall gets used to it and Harry breaks his heart again.

It’s inevitable, really. Harry is Niall’s downfall; Harry always breaks Niall’s heart.

“I’m sick, you ass,” Niall hisses, turning to glower at Harry over his shoulder. Sometime during the night, between three and five, he shed most of his clothing in favor of sleeping in a pair of baggy boxers, and he’s very, very glad he did because he’s shivering and burning up simultaneously, and his gut is rocking and his head is rolling and he feels like mush, and he can’t even fathom how uncomfortable he would be if he were still wearing pajama pants and a sweater. “I’m sick ‘cause of you.”

“No, Ni. You’re sick because you’ve got a hangover.”

Well, yeah, he has a hangover, too, but he is sick. He really is sick. His throat hurts, burns like it’s on fire, and his limbs are aching, feels like they’ve been crushed by lead, and his nose is goofing off ― one nostril is stopped up, backed up like rush hour in the city during Christmastime, and the other is running and running and running, flooding everything in sight. The symptoms of hangovers aren’t the same as those of a cold, Niall doesn’t think.

“No, Harry. I’m sick because I’ve got a cold.” He frowns, rolls over onto his back again and gives Harry a wounded, pleading look. “And because I have a hangover.”

Harry sighs. “A cold, huh?”

Niall nods and pouts ― he’s pitiful, so pitiful, but he hardly ever gets sick, really, and when he does it’s awful, makes him just want to stay in bed and wallow around in a bit of anger and sadness because there’s not much he can do about it besides let the illness pass.

“And a hangover, too,” Niall adds, so Harry knows exactly what’s going on.

Harry nods and grins; he walks further into Niall’s room and sets his sandwich on Niall’s desk, meandering toward Niall’s bed, where he’s lain out across the mattress, tangled between the sheets like an animal. “I’m gonna feel your temperature, okay?” Harry says and Niall nods, expecting Harry to cup his forehead with his hand, but Niall’s very, very surprised when Harry puckers his lips and leans down, when Harry puts his mouth against Niall’s skin and hums as he holds himself still. “You’ve got a little bit of a fever, baby.”

Baby. Again with this fucking nonsense.

“I don’t feel well, Harry.”

Harry sighs. “I know, Ni. I know.” He leans back, puts his hand on Niall’s forehead and combs his fingers up into Niall’s sweaty, damp hair. “Hopefully a few tablets of Ibuprofen will help cure your hangover and bring down your fever, yeah?”

Niall nods and sniffles, and he’s cold all of a sudden, but his blankets are in the floor and all he has is a sheet, is a thin piece of fabric to keep away the chill. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he says, whispery-soft, and grabs at the sheets, pulling them up and burrowing himself inside. “I’m really sorry.”

“What for?” Harry raises his brow, makes a weird face that brings a little sputter of laughter passed Niall’s cry, chapped lips. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, all right? Now, I’m going to go get you medicine and put some soup on to warm, and when I get back we’ll talk, okay?”

Niall nods. He wants to talk to Harry, can’t remember much of last night and knows that Harry does.

“I’ll be back quickly.”

Again, Niall nods, pursing his lips, and Harry gives him a tender, tentative smile before darting out of Niall’s room and into the kitchen.

And Niall’s left to wonder, left to think about what exactly happened last night, left to pick through everything and put two and two together only to come up with three. He remembers meeting Grace ― lovely, lovely girl, that one; very wild and unpredictable in a calm, collected way ― remembers being bombarded by three females who left him feeling odd and off, remembers Harry pretending to be his boyfriend to scare away the people that were intimidating, that were making Niall so sick and uncomfortable, remembers bringing up Harry forgetting him, remembers Grace offering them all the free drinks they wanted.

That’s where it ends, kind of.

There’s blurred pieces of a fuzzy movie swimming through his mind, quick and smeared, and he can make out a few glimpses of cognizant action, a few instances where everything was clear and he could probably see the little dark spots on the surface of the sun if he looked hard enough.

Did he dance on the bar, or was that a dream?

Did he grab some guy’s dick, or was that a dream, too?

Did he ask Harry to kiss him, or was ― no; no, that was definitely a dream. That had to be a dream. Because if it wasn’t, because if he really did ask Harry to kiss him, he fucked up. He fucked up massively.

“I got you four pills, Ni, but I only want you to take two right now, okay? And if you’re still feeling icky after you eat, you can take the other two, all right?”

Niall nods, tears his gaze off of the patchy ceiling to meet Harry’s blue-green eyes. “Okay.” He smiles, attempts to smile; Harry sets a cup of iced water on the nightstand, placing the four Ibuprofens there, too, and grabs Niall by the shoulders, helping to carefully ease Niall into a sitting position.

The sheets pool around Niall’s waist, and he doesn’t have it in him to feel embarrassed about his chest hair, about his lack of defined muscle, about his pudgy tummy ― because Harry’s seen him without clothing before, seen him as bare as he was when he came into the world, and Harry didn’t judge him then. Niall knows Harry isn’t going to judge him now, either.

“Drink up,” Harry orders, grabs two pills and drops them into Niall’s palm, handing Niall the glass of water.

It’s cold to his lips, a stark contrast to his hot body; he takes a little sip, puts the medicine in his mouth, and then takes a bigger drink to help ease them down. “Thank you,” he says in a faint whisper, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

Harry makes a face and grabs a dirty shirt off of the floor, handing it to Niall so he doesn’t have to use his skin as a snot rag.

“How much do you remember from last night, Ni?”

Niall makes a face. “Everything’s kind of blurry after Grace told us our drinks were on the house,” Niall replies, searching through his mind to find every last little detail of last night. “But I saw I had a bruise on my bum, and I’m not sure how it got there. But, like, I knew it was there, kind of, because I knew to sit sideways on the toilet earlier.”

“You fell.”

Niall’s eyes shut and he wants to fall over, off the bed, into the floor. “No,” he denies it immediately. “No, I didn’t. You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” Harry shakes his head, and he’s smiling again, and Niall notices for somebody that went out to party last night, he looks relatively normal and okay, looks like he only had a few drinks compared to Niall’s few dozen. “You literally fell down on top of a shot glass.”

“Do I have glass in my ass?”

Harry blanches. “It ― it didn’t break, Ni.”

Niall frowns. “Well, fuck. How’d I fall?”

“You kind of got on top of the bar and danced for a bit.”

No. No, that’s _not true_ ― that can’t be true because if it is, if he really did, then… then does that mean everything is true?

“Harry, did… did I by chance grab somebody’s crotch?” Niall asks, kind of shaky and uncomfortable with all the possibilities swirling avidly through his mind like the rays of sunlight over an unsettled ocean current. “Did I eat three plates of nachos in under ten minutes for a bet?”

“Um… you didn’t grab anybody’s dick, no,” Harry replies with a light laugh, hiding his mirth behind the back of his hand, and Niall isn’t even mad that Harry’s attempting to quiet his giggles because this isn’t a laughing matter, really. “But you did eat three plates of nachos in eight and a half minutes for fifty pounds, I think. It may have been sixty, although you pissed it away when you bet you could drink four screwdrivers in a minute. Your time was one minute and three seconds.”

“Oh, my God.” Niall puts his head in his hands and groans; he’s stunned, completely taken aback at his wild before. He knows he’s quite the partier, of course, but he never realized he was that crazy. “I’m never drinking again.”

“That’s what they all say.” Harry’s hand is suddenly on Niall’s back, rubbing soft, slow circles, and it’s a touch that Niall didn’t know he needed till he has it. “Niall, did you mean what you said last night?”

Niall grunts, takes his head out of his hands and gives Harry a questioning, calculative look; it’s quite dim in the room, the only light source being the tall lamp in the corner, but he can see everything, can see Harry’s eyes and the lavender-colored bags beneath, can see the blotchy redness and unevenness of his face and the little hair above his upper lip and on his chin, can see the moles and freckles and acne and pores.

Harry’s beautiful ― Harry is honestly so, so _beautiful_.

“I think I said a lot of things last night, Harry. You’ll have to be a little bit clearer, m’kay?”

Harry nods, jerky and very stiff. “Did you… did you mean it when you said I ignore you?”

Niall feels the blood rush from his face, feels it gather around his feet, feels it leave his body cold, cold, cold. “I’m sorry I said that,” he replies, diverts the need to answer with an apology because he is very, very sorry for saying that, because he is very, very sorry for bringing something like that up on a night when it was just supposed to be him and Harry and the memories of true joy. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, Ni, and I don’t give a shit. Right now I want to know if you meant what you said ‘cause it’s eating me alive, baby.”

Fuck.

“I ― I did.” Niall nods, shuts his eyes and lets out a sigh; his stomach is angry and his head hurts worse than it ever did before. “I did mean it. Because when you’re with Lauren, you do ignore me. You… S’like I’m not even here, like it’s you just and her, and ― and that hurts because it always used to be you and me and Louis and Liam and Zayn, and then it was us two, and now it’s you and Lauren and I’m by myself.” He shrugs, lets out a shaky breath that rattles nasally in his chest. “I’m by myself because I’m always alone.”

“But you’re not alone, Niall.” Harry scoots forward, moves closer; his hands reach out to cup Niall’s cheeks, lifting his face so their eyes can meet. Harry’s eyes are wide and sorry, and Niall’s are narrowed and apologetic, and they’re both a mess of epic proportions because Niall knows what he wants and Harry doesn’t know that he’s what’s wanted ― as always. “You’ve never been alone.”

“I feel like I am,” Niall whispers, and it feels good to get this load of depression off his chest, to lessen the weight of anxiety and apprehension from his shoulders. He knows it wasn’t healthy to keep it there, knows it was stupid to nurse the disastrous emotions for so, so long. “Even now, I feel like I’m alone.”

“Why?” Harry asks, and his tone is hard, edged with a blade that’s sharp enough to cut glass. “Why do you feel that way?”

“Because you’re here,” Niall whispers, shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to stare into Harry’s glare any longer. “You’re here, but you’re not really here. Because you’re here taking care of me on your day off when I know ― I know you’d much rather be hanging around Lauren’s work and bringing her lunch and walking her home and spending the night with her.”

Harry shakes his head ― Harry shakes his head so vigorously, so aggressively, that Niall can feel the movement. “That’s a load of fucking shit, Niall Horan.”

Niall’s eyes snap open, and Harry’s are burning a hole straight through him.

“I’m here right now taking care of you because I want to, you goofy boy. I’m here looking after you because I let you get drunk, because I’m the reason you have a cold. But I’m here mostly because I want to spend today with you, too. I’m here because I miss when it was just you and me, when I could walk around the house in my underwear and not get yelled at and you could nap all over the place at the weirdest times of the day.” Harry smiles, and Niall’s eyes are on fire, and he wants to cry, wants to wash away all of his sins with the baptism of his tears, but he won’t allow that to happen because he doesn’t think he deserves to be forgiven of everything he’s done to Harry. “I just want to have some time with my best friend, Niall.”

The proverbial cloud of pelting rain over Niall’s head dissipates and gives way to blinding sunshine, and he still feels like shit, still feels like he’s gotten flattened by a freight train, but he’s smiling, so big and real and easy ― because Harry’s words are the single stitch that’s holding Niall’s battered, scarred heart together.

“Do you really mean that, Harry?”

Harry nods, and Niall’s smile only grows, if possible; his heart is mending, and he reckons having Harry as his best friend is okay if he can’t have Harry as his boyfriend. “I do, Niall,” Harry says, rubbing at the tender skin beneath Niall’s swelled, puffy eyes. “And I also wanted to ask you something.”

“Yeah?” Niall swallows. “What is it?”

“I ― I want to know if you’ll help me pick out a ring for Lauren for her Christmas present.”

And that single stitch that’s holding Niall’s heart together lets go, breaks completely, and he’s bleeding out, and there’s nothing that can fix him now ― because Harry’s completely, utterly broken him.

 


	8. eight

Niall said yes.

Niall said yes to helping Harry find the perfect ― _perfect_ ― ring for Lauren, and Harry’s giddy excitement is what kept him up through the night with Niall, is what kept his stomach settled when he had to help Niall vomit up everything he put down, when he laid in bed with Niall between the sheets and listened to Niall ramble about anything and everything.

The conformation that Niall is still his best friend, is still his brother, is still one of his most favorite people in the world is what kept Harry fettered, is what kept him tethered to the ground.

He’s… He’s so lucky to have Niall, so lucky to have forgotten to lock the door when he and Louis were goofing off ― because if he didn’t, he probably wouldn’t have met Niall, probably wouldn’t have created one of the best things that’s ever happened to him.

The level of gratitude Harry has for Niall is unprecedented, and he doesn’t want to mess that up. Ever.

“What kind of ring are you looking for?” Niall asks Harry as they climb out of the car; Niall’s cold turned out to be just a twenty-four hour bug, and once it was obvious he was clear to continue on this morning with his life, he convinced Harry that it was probably smart to start shopping for Lauren’s ring before all of the pretty gems were taken. “Like, what kind of style?”

“Um… That’s a good question.” Harry shrugs and offers Niall a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck. He locks the car and stuffs the keys into his pockets, adjusting his beanie and pulling a curl of hair away from his vision. “Something simple, I guess. All the jewelry she has is so elegant, ya know, and, like, flashy-looking and expensive. And I just think she would like something simple, something not as big or showy.”

Niall nods, hums in the back of his throat, and he looks cute today, Harry thinks, _very_ cute. He’s wearing jeans and boots, of course ― Harry is, too ― as well as a light green, floral-print sweater underneath a dark brown corduroy jacket; his hair is styled, kind of, and his face is red from the bitter wind that’s sifting through the parking lot of the shopping mall, and Harry wonders if Niall will ever ask him to help find a ring for the love of his life, hopes Niall won’t forget about him when he meets his soul mate because Harry wants to be there to share it all with Niall.

Because Harry believes in soul mates, believes that there is one single person out there in the world that was created to completely fit and complement you; however, he also believes that not everybody finds their soul mates, believes that they go their whole lives living with somebody who they’ve just settled for, who they’ve found, who they’ve decided to play safe for instead of fighting, instead of hunting and seeing and feeling.

And Harry doesn’t want to be one of those people, doesn’t think he is, really. Because Lauren is his soul mate.

But Niall is, too. Niall is Harry’s soul mate in the way that they’re brothers born to different families on different days of different years; soul mates are real in his opinion, yes, but not all of them are romantic. And sometimes the best soul mates are the ones that aren’t romantic.

“I think she’d like that, too,” Niall agrees, and the smile he gives Harry as they weave through the vehicles toward the entrance of the mall melts Harry’s heart, makes him swell and blush with pride ― because yeah, he’s got the greatest girlfriend ever, of course, but he also has the most wonderful best friend in the world, too. He’s lucky to have Lauren, but he’s lucky to have Niall, too. “Gold or silver?”

Harry hums and kicks at a clump of wet newspaper. “Probably… probably silver. ‘Cause I think a silver band would look better on her finger with a white diamond, ya know?” Niall nods at Harry’s awkward explanation. “And I want to get it engraved on the inside, too.”

“Oh? What do you want it to say?”

The doors to the mall are automatic, and they open for Niall, who Harry follows quickly after; a warm gush of air hits him, makes him almost immediately begin to sweat in his jacket. The mall isn’t crowded, but there are tons of people spread out all about, carrying loads and loads of bags as they braid through and around everybody.

Though Harry’s been in London for the last four years, give or take a few months, he still finds it odd that everything is almost always full because back home, back in Cheshire, there was room to grow, room to branch out, room to be and to see. He misses the slow-paced life of Cheshire, but the London lights have stolen his heart like a jet airliner, and he can’t imagine living anywhere else.

Besides, Niall’s in London for the next year, at least, and Lauren’s job is steady and secure at the bank, where she’s a loan officer and the vice president of the branch.

“I want it to say something like… like, ‘Forever mine, always yours’. Or something.” Harry shrugs; he’s good at actions, not words, and that’s never been more noticeable before. “I just ― it’s really hard to describe it, ya know? I love her, and I want her to know it, but I can’t find the words to say it.”

“She knows it.” Niall offers a sickly grin, and it’s strained and thick with dense dubiety that has Harry forgetting the fact that he’s hot, that he’s awful with words. “Trust me, the whole fucking world knows you’re in love with her.”

Harry’s miffed, kind of, and put off, definitely. The sour edge in Niall’s voice is one he’s heard before, of course, though never directed at him personally, and it’s odd to have it pointed at him, weird to have it aimed at him when he’s not done a thing wrong.

Or, he’s not done a thing wrong in his mind. He isn’t in Niall’s mind; therefore, he doesn’t know if he’s messed up somewhere. He doesn’t really want to know if he’s messed up somewhere.

“Ni, am I annoying you?”

Niall halts, gives Harry a wide-eyed, befuddled look. “What do you mean?”

Two elderly females shove past Harry, elbowing him in the back, and he has to step into Niall, has to press his chest against Niall’s to get out of their way before they run him over. But the close proximity between him and Niall is almost amazing, actually; it feels like there’s electricity buzzing all around, feels like he’s walking on water and dancing on the clouds and soaring high in the sky.

Niall’s breath hitches and his lips part to drag in air, and Harry tries not to look at Niall’s mouth, tries not to imagine what it would have been like to kiss Niall when he asked for it the other night after they managed to leave the pub in one piece.

But that’s all in the past, and this is the present, and Harry can’t look back because what’s in front of him is Niall, and he really, _really_ likes that view.

“Am I annoying you with this?” Harry asks, and he doesn’t take a step back because he quite likes the color of Niall’s blue eyes so close. They’re lighter than Lauren’s ― whose are dark, like navy ― and they remind Harry of the sky just before twilight, when it’s white-blue and bright, luminescent. Beautiful. “Is this ― does me asking you to help me find Lauren a ring bother you in any way?”

Niall’s face turns white, drains of color, and he looks conflicted, looks like he’s fighting an inner battle that’s full of bloodshed and bedlam, but he’s quick to force a smile, swift to shake his head. “Of course not,” he says, a little bit too enthusiastic and eager, a little bit too loud and joyous, and Harry isn’t sure if Niall’s lying or telling the truth because he hasn’t been spending much time with Niall. That’s backfiring horribly now, isn’t it? “You’re not bothering me at all. If you’re happy, Harry, I am, too.” Niall’s eyes soften, and Harry takes a step back because he’s too close to Niall, too into Niall to make any rational observations. “Promise.”

And that’s not a lie because Niall’s eyes are twinkling and the smile on his face is real ― it’s actually _real_.

-

“I’m full,” Harry admits, rubbing his tummy. He ate four slices of pizza, two large pretzels ― with extra salt, too ― and drank three medium Cokes, and he feels like he’s about to blow up indefinitely. “I can’t be looking for a ring when I’m on the verge of imploding. That’s dangerous. And probably illegal, too.”

“Harry.” Niall gives Harry a look ― _the look_ ― and Harry rolls his eyes, absently reaches out to finger at the crusted sauce that’s hanging on the corner of Niall’s mouth with his thumb. Niall’s glare wavers, and Harry swallows because he’s not sure if he’s ever done that for Niall before. “We’re going to get a ring today, all right?”

Harry nods, and his stomach drops at the mention of finding a ring, and his feet are cold ― literally; his toes are so chilled they’re hot. “You think so?” he asks, and it isn’t that he’s having second doubts, per se; he’s just doubting that they’ll find a ring that’s perfect for Lauren, perfect to express how Harry feels about her.

“Yeah.” Niall smiles. “I think so.”

They share a look, one that’s deep and burrowing beneath the surface of logic; Niall is the first to look away, the first to spot a highly-acclaimed jewelry store, and he grabs at Harry’s shoulder to pull him along, to tug him through the traffic of the busy walk and into the metal-smelling entrance.

Harry looks around, and he’s in awe of the amount of sparkling, dazzling jewelry spread about. To the left is necklaces, and they’re of a wide variety: some are long, others are short; some are gold, others are silver, and even a few art artificially colored, it seems. The watches and bracelets are in front, hanging on a large wall, and Harry winces as he looks because he makes quite a bit money, yes, and he’s got more than enough saved, of course, but the amount of a diamond-encrusted, gold-plaited watch makes him want to begin to prepare for doomsday.

_Oh, my._

And to the right, where there’s a glass counter with several employees behind, are the rings; the store is full of displays all around, and Harry knows it’s either going to be easy or hard picking out the perfect wedding band for Lauren.

There’s no in between, really. It’s either or, as always.

“Hi.” A male worker with brown hair and hazel eyes and dark skin approaches, and he’s wearing a tailored gray suit with a blood-red tie, and Harry inwardly admires the man’s taste. “Do you two gentlemen need any help? I’m Shannon Montgomery.”

Harry smiles, tries to open his mouth to say something, but Niall beats him to it and Harry’s forever grateful, forever relieved to have him as a best friend. He’s an absolute _angel_.

“We’re looking for a ring.” Niall holds his hand out for Shannon to shake, and Harry does so, too, averting his gaze from Shannon’s because he’s definitely intimidated and uncomfortable for some reason or another.

He isn’t sure if he should be doing this. Oh, _fuck_ ― what if he’s screwing up majorly? What if he’s messing with the balance of fate and destiny, and going through with this causes the end of the world? What if ―

“Harry.”

Harry looks at Niall, tries to shrug off the weird edge of dissatisfaction and indecisiveness. “Yeah?” He shakes his head, tries to smile politely in apology. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying any attention; my head was up in the clouds.”

“S’fine.” Niall gives Harry an encouraging smile, and all Harry can stare at is Niall’s lips, at the little sliver of tongue he can see. “Shannon asked what you had in mind, and I thought you’d do better at explaining it.”

Harry has to talk. Harry has to _talk_.

“Oh.” He wets his lips and forces his body to not shake and shudder. “I… I’d like something simple, ya know, with, like, only a few diamonds in the center. And I want it to be silver, too.” He swallows; he sucks at communicating his thoughts, sucks at talking to people who aren’t his friends and family. “I’m so sorry I suck at describing everything. I just ―”

“He wants something elegant but simple,” Niall cuts in, and Harry lets out a breath of relief. “And he wants it in silver, too, but the band needs to be large and thick enough for him to engrave something on the inside, if that’s okay.”

Shannon nods, and Harry isn’t sure if the smile on his face is professional or sympathetic. “I think we can work with that,” he says, laughs at Niall’s release of breath. “Now, is he buying a ring for you or…”

 _Oh_.

“No, it’s not for me,” Niall replies, chuckling, but his face is kind of hidden from Harry and he can’t see Niall’s expression, isn’t sure if he wants to. They get mistaken for a couple all the time, really, and it never fails to make Niall blush or make Harry want to roll his eyes. “It’s for his girlfriend, who’s my cousin.”

“Ah. Lovely.” Shannon nods, claps his hands together. “We’ll start over here, okay?”

Shannon motions for them to follow after him, and Niall takes the lead with Harry falling back behind as they weave through a few of the cases holding dozens and dozens of rings. Some are flashy, some are tall with diamonds; others are dull but beautiful, like a butterfly’s wings in a strange way.

There’s so many to choose from, so many to look at; they’ve not even started yet, and Harry already wants to vomit at all of the possibilities.

“This is a collection we’ve had for a while,” Shannon’s saying, and Harry tears his eyes off of the expensive rings and looks in the case he’s pointing at. There’s a variety of colors and styles inside, though they’re all quite simple and easy to look at. Harry doesn’t feel like he’s robbing a bank as his eyes move across the selection, and he reckons that’s probably good. “Not many people purchase a ring out of this case because they’re all simple, as you can see. And the price isn’t near as high, either, which is very convenient, as well.”

“What’s it called?” Harry asks, bending closer and examining a ring with a gold band that’s cracked with silver designs and a sparkly, glimmering diamond that’s sat crookedly. Messy but appealing. “The other collections have names, ya know, like Rose Kisses and Butterfly Wings. What’s the name of this?”

Shannon makes a face. “It’s Between the Sheets, actually.”

Niall makes a noise, but one of the rings in particular has caught Harry’s eye and he doesn’t look away. “Why Between the Sheets?” Niall asks; Harry’s gaze is adhered firmly to the silver band, and he can’t take his eyes off of the shining single diamond that’s surrounded by much smaller, equally as glowing gems. It looks like a flower, kind of, and Lauren has a tiny flower tattooed on the inside of her wrist in remembrance of a friend who passed away a few years ago ― her name was Flora, hence the flower ― and it’s _perfect_ for her. “That’s a bit strange.”

“Not really,” Shannon disagrees, and Harry nods his head, too, because he thinks the name fits the collection well. “Some of the best memories are made in bed, whether it be with a partner or your children or by yourself. You’re either happy or sad when you’re lying in bed, and the creator of this collection wanted to reflect two emotions without going overboard on either one.”

Oh. They did so very, very well.

“It’s this one.” Harry puts his finger to the glass and points at the flower-like ring. “This is the one I want.”

Shannon bends over and looks at where Harry’s pointing. “My sister has a variation of that one,” he replies, and the smile on his face could be heard rather than seen. “Her diamond is pink, and the little ones around it are yellow. It’s very beautiful.”

Harry nods. “Can we take a look at it?”

“Of course.” Shannon fiddles with a set of keys hanging onto the waistband of his pants and unlocks the case; he reaches in, grabs the little throne the ring’s sat on, and pulls it out, handing it to Harry to hold. “Here you are.”

It’s even more perfect outside of the glass, Harry thinks. The lights above are bright, and they catch the diamonds like sparks, and they’re so clean he can see a smeared reflection of himself in them.

“Niall.” Harry tears his eyes away from the ring and looks at Niall.

“It’s beautiful, Harry.” Niall smiles, and his blue eyes are warm, molted and lava-like.

“Niall, try it on please.”

And Harry’s taking the ring out before Niall can answer, grabbing Niall’s hand and pushing the band onto his finger tenderly, gently; it slides on with ease, and the silver looks dashing against Niall’s pallor, and the diamonds reflect the ones that are glowing inside of Niall’s eyes.

“It’s perfect.” Harry looks into Niall’s eyes, and the diamonds there can outshine any in the store. “It’s absolutely perfect.”


	9. nine

“Do you think she’s going to like it?” Harry asks, kind of loud and excited, nudging his shoulder into Niall’s to grab Niall’s attention.

Niall rips is gaze off of the sidewalk and looks over at Harry, swallowing around the lump of disgusting rejection and dejection that’s settled in the bottom of his throat like a blood clot. “Yeah,” he answers, smiles, but in the back of his mind he wonders if it’s possible to die from heartache, if it’s possible for unrequited emotions to strangle the life out of somebody. “I think she really will.”

And how could Lauren not love the ring? It’s beautiful and simple, shaped like a flower, and Niall knows Harry purchased it because of the sentimental meaning. Niall knows about Flora, remembers the days of tears and angry words and slurred emotions, and he’s glad Harry got the ring because Lauren will absolutely love it.

Besides, it’s just a ring ― it’s _just_ a ring. It isn’t an engagement ring, or promise ring, or any sort of ring bonding them together, really. It’s just a ring for a Christmas present.

It still hurts, though. It still hurts really, really bad, in ways Niall’s never experienced pain. He’s had his knee blown out, snapped his wrist in half, broken four toes and three fingers and one rib because of a semi-serious car accident, but he’s never felt a pain more real, more terrorizing, than he did when Harry pulled the ring off of his finger and claimed it would be perfect for his girlfriend.

Niall refuses to think about what that would be like, what he would do if he just helped Harry purchase an engagement ring. It’s a scary thing to imagine and even nastier to shed light on; he’s happy if Harry’s happy, yes, but if he’s just signed the seal on his own broken heart, he isn’t sure what he’ll do.

And the really funny thing is that Harry doesn’t even know he’s grabbing Niall’s heart in his hand and squeezing till it stops pumping, squeezing till it runs out of power to pump and pump and pump. Harry’s killing Niall by being in love with Lauren, and Harry doesn’t even _know_ it.

Niall wonders what Harry would do if he knew, wonders if Harry would break off all ties with Lauren to lessen the burden on Niall’s chest or drift apart from Niall in favor of Lauren or just continue on as if nothing has changed, as if everything is perfectly okay.

However, Niall’s not sure if he wants to know what Harry’s reaction would be, and that’s why he hasn’t told him, why he’s not told anybody about his secret affection and complete adoration and utter amazement for Harry.

“Niall?”

Niall shakes his head, crinkles his nose against the abrupt, chilly wind. “Yeah?”

“What’s up with you today, Ni?” Harry asks, stepping close; he slings his arm over Niall’s shoulders, pulls Niall against himself as they ascend the steps leading to their shared home. “You’ve been dancing in the clouds for a while. You’ve got me worried.”

Ha. _Worried_? Yeah, right. Harry probably couldn’t care less about Niall if he tried.

“Just…” Niall trails off and shrugs, pulling away from Harry as they stop in front of their door; he digs in his jeans for his set of keys, keeping his eyes glued on the wooden welcome sign Zayn created with a laser in woodshop class a few years back. It’s worn and crooked, frayed by the elements, but Niall doesn’t ever see any of them ever removing the sign. It would probably tell on the five of them if it could talk, anyway. “My brain’s just been kinda wacky for the last few days.”

Few days? More like for the last six months.

Harry hums, grabbing Niall’s hand before he can turn the knob on the door. “It really has been,” he muses with a laugh, and the skin around his eyes is wrinkled and his dimples are on full display and Harry is just so fucking cute in all the right ways that it takes Niall’s breath completely away. “I asked if you knew if Lauren was here.”

Of course. Niall rolls his eyes _― of course_. Harry can’t take his mind off of Lauren for one second, and it never used to annoy him as much as it does now.

He wishes he would never have taken Harry to the family reunion.

“I didn’t see her car in the lot,” Niall replies, tugging his hand from Harry’s and grabbing the knob, twisting it open. Lauren has a key to the house, one that Niall had made for her on her birthday last month. He was getting tired of having to get up and let Harry and her in after a night out when Harry forgot is own key back at home, and he thought it made a nice gift. “But I haven’t talked to her today. Have you?”

Harry nods. “Just a quick text, s’all.” Niall opens the door and steps inside, and a few of the lights are on, and they’ve either been robbed or Harry forgot to turn them off when they left earlier. “I really want to surprise her, you know? I want to catch her off guard and make her remember why she fell in love with me in the first place.”

“You want to surprise me with what?”

“Holy fucking shit.”

It’s Lauren, and she’s in front of both Niall and Harry in an instant, wearing a white, form-fitting dress with a black pea coat over it and tall, brown suede boots, and Niall realizes that she must have just left the office after the initial shock of being caught off guard fades away.

“Damn, Lauren.” Harry wheezes, clutches at his heart and takes in a steadying breath that rattles in his chest; Niall wonders if he’s getting sick, too. “I’m not mad that you’re here, you know, but you could’ve told me you were coming so I would’ve known to not shit my pants.”

Niall laughs, turns his head to the side and hides his chuckles from Lauren, who’s scowling and putting her hands on her hips in a manner Niall isn’t sure he likes. “Really, Harry? You’re twenty-two, and you’re talking about shitting your pants.” She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, and the fact that she’s angry, that she’s disgruntled and uncomfortable means that she has something on her mind. And it’s bad. “You’re such a child sometimes.”

Niall’s smile wears away immediately, and he feels itchy and prickly and uncomfortable; he’s kind of angry at Lauren for taking whatever it is that’s got her insides in a twist out on Harry’s when he’s done nothing wrong, when he’s been the most perfect boyfriend anybody could ask for.

Being mean to Harry is like ― being mean to Harry is like trying to catch a star, or trying to swim the entire ocean, or trying to dance on the clouds. Being mean to Harry is _impossible_.

“Lauren ―” Niall begins, tries to reason with his cousin, tries to lessen the blow but Harry cuts him off.

“Baby, how was your day?” Harry asks, stepping close to her and wrapping his arms around her waist; he leans down, puts a sweet kiss to her forehead, and her nasty expression immediately changes into one of total euphoria.

Niall feels like he’s going to puke, like he’s going to fall to his knees and drop to his chest and curl himself into a ball of nothing ― because that’s what he is to Harry, really. He’s nothing at all.

“It’s been rough,” she admits around a sigh, dropping her head against Harry’s shoulder and curling her arms around his neck. “I’ve had to do so much paperwork, and a few employees were having trouble with a rowdy costumer, and I dropped my lunch on the floor, and that was awful. Everything was horrible. I’m just glad I’m home with you, Harry.”

But this isn’t her home with Harry. It’s Niall’s home with Harry, it’s Niall’s place to be with Harry. She’s taken almost everything away from Niall; surely she won’t take his home from him, surely she won’t put him out when she knows this house is one of the most precious things in Niall’s life.

Niall gulps and walks passed Harry and Lauren, tries to drag his cracking heart behind him; he enters the kitchen, makes his way toward the sink and turns on the faucet, splashing a bit of cold, cold water into his face. He groans, grabs for the drawer to his left and reaches for a towel that he dries his face off with; he turns and looks the way he came in, and he’s standing in a perfect spot where he has total view of Harry and Lauren though they can’t see him.

Harry’s whispering in her ear and she’s giggling, hiding her face in Harry’s neck and pressing kisses there, and they look so cute together, so in love and crazy about one another that Niall feels a rumbling in his tummy, feels like he’s about to spew all over the place again.

He darts toward the trash can, kneels to the floor and sticks his face inside, but before he can force out the taste of bile and sadness, Harry’s talking loud enough for him to hear and everything is slowing and freezing.

“I’m sorry work was so awful, baby. I’m sorry paperwork is shit and I’m sorry people are mean and I’m sorry you have butter fingers.”

She laughs lightly, and Niall can’t see her face but he knows Lauren is grinning so, so large ― because she’s in love with Harry and Harry is in love with her, and that’s definitely something to be happy about.

“It’s all right, Harry,” she says, and then there’s the noise of a quick kiss pressed to somebody’s lips, and Niall really, really hopes it wasn’t Harry who initiated the touch. The thought of Harry kissing Lauren still burns Niall deep. “I’m just glad I’m with you. I can’t wait to relax.”

“Want to go back to your place?”

Lauren groans, and Niall shoves his face further into the trash can because he doesn’t want to know why she’s making so many sounds, why she’s being so sensual and cuddly today. “No,” she replies quietly, gently. “I’m just fine here.”

“Oh, baby. Do you want me to ask Niall to leave?”

_What the fuck?_

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Harry continues as if it’s nothing, as if he and Lauren are discussing the weather instead of something as important as forcing Niall to leave his own home. “He’d probably be happy to, actually. He’s spent all day with me. I’m sure he could use some time away. He’s not in the happiest mood with me, anyway.”

“That’s not very nice of you, Harry,” Lauren berates, but her voice is light and airy, and she doesn’t really care about Niall either way, and Niall shuts his eyes and opens his mouth as nasty, hot bile rises up his throat and shoots out of his mouth. “Niall doesn’t have to leave. We can just stay in your room.”

“But I want to fuck you on the kitchen table. I can’t do that with Niall here.”

_Oh my God._

It’s actual vomit this time, actual food that he devoured earlier after his stomach was already emptied last night, and it hurts, burns his throat and makes his nose run and his eyes water. His stomach feels like it’s full of acid, full of simmering sourness, and he’s sick in more ways than one ― he’s sick physically, he’s sick emotionally, he’s sick mentally.

He’s just sick. He’s sick of Harry, sick of Lauren, sick of the way his life is going down the drain when he was on top of the world only a few months ago. He’s sick of it all.

“Harry, that ―”

Niall pukes again. And again and again and again, till he’s dry-heaving and sobbing with the pressure of it all, till he can hardly breathe and the tears are blurring his vision.

“Niall?”

Niall takes a deep breath and looks up and over his shoulder; Harry and Lauren are standing behind him, and their facial expressions are matching, and Niall doesn’t like the way confusion makes Harry white and sweaty.

“Are you okay?” Lauren asks, worried and slow and soft, taking a step forward.

Niall sees that Harry and Lauren’s hands are clasped together, and it makes another round of phlegm rise up and depart, and Niall blindly reaches for the dish towel he threw on top of the island after he finishes again, wiping at his mouth.

He stands on wobbly legs; he’s cold and sweaty, and his bones are aching and his mind is racing and his heart is breaking.

“Niall?” Harry tries, letting loose of Lauren’s hand and walking closer; he reaches up, tries to cup Niall’s cheek to wipe off the tears, but Niall shies away and moves back, and the torn expression on Harry’s face renews the quiet sobs that quake in Niall’s chest. “Niall, please ―”

“I’m gonna call Louis,” Niall says, and then he’s running out of the kitchen and down the hall, toward his bedroom; he shoves his way inside, shuts the door gently as to not cause any bewilderment, and grapples for his phone as he turns the lock.

Harry has no right to come in unannounced today, especially after what he’s said.

Through wet eyes, Niall scrolls till he finds Louis’s name ― King Lou, because Louis likes to be personalized and extraordinary, in his words ― and hits the call button. It takes a moment, and Niall’s afraid Louis isn’t going to answer because he’s at work, but then he’s breathing a sigh of relief when he hears Louis speak.

“Niall? What’s up, lad?”

Niall opens his mouth to speak, but a sob catches in his throat and he slaps his hand over his mouth to keep in the beastly howls of pain that threaten to escape.

“Ni? Ni, are you okay?”

No. No, he isn’t, and no, he’s never going to be as long as he’s in the same house as Harry and Lauren, as long as he’s constantly reminded of everything that he can’t have. He’s not in a healthy environment, and he needs to leave. He needs to leave _now_.

“Louis, I ―”

“Don’t bullshit me, Ni. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m… I’m not bullshitting you. Please, Lou. _Please_.”

“I’m coming to get you, Niall. I’m on my way.” _Thank_ _goodness_. “You’re at home, right?”

“Mmhmm.” Niall can’t talk, doesn’t really want to talk because he knows he’ll lose it, knows he’ll lose his mind and he kind of wants to hold on to that since he can’t keep his heart. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Stay there.” There’s a loud clattering noise on the other end, and Niall wants to laugh when he hears Louis curse under his breath, wants to forget about the world and how it’s crumbling when he hears Louis call to his employer that there’s an emergency at home that needs to be tended to. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon. I love you, Ni. See you when I get there.”

Louis hangs up then, and Niall pushes up, rushes around his room and begins to pack; he grabs a wide variety of clothes and shoes, stuffing in deodorant and socks and underwear. Louis has a spare toothbrush for each of the boys, and Niall reckons it’s probably a good idea to not make a trip to the bathroom because that would be passing Harry’s room, and he doesn’t want to hear everything he can’t have.

He’s finished in five minutes, and as he shrugs into a jean jacket and folds a wad of cash into his pocket, he unlocks his door and steps outside, immediately butting heads with Harry.

“Ow,” Harry moans, rubbing his forehead; Niall sidesteps Harry and presses his back against the wall, clutching his duffel tight with white knuckles. Harry shakes his head and gives Niall a lopsided, worrisome grin, which only falls once he sees that Niall’s holding a bag. “Where are you going?”

Niall sighs and blinks, and his eyes are heavy with tears that still haven’t been shed yet. “I’m going to Louis’s,” he croaks and swallows. _Hard_. Because Louis works a lot, and his friend-who-is-not-a-girlfriend-but-the-mother-of-his-baby is one of the loveliest people Niall’s ever met.

Harry frowns. “Why?” He reaches out and grabs Niall’s hand, and Niall lets him because Harry’s eyes are pleading and he can’t ever say no to Harry. “Lauren’s gone, Ni. I… I thought we can spend the rest of the day together since you’re not feeling very well.”

_You thought wrong._

“S’okay, Harry. Call Lauren and tell her to come back so you’re not alone.” Niall jerks softly away from Harry and begins to walk down the corridor, toward the door; Louis will be here any minute.

“Why are you leaving?” Harry asks, and he sounds kind of shattered, kind of wrecked.

Niall doesn’t turn around because Harry’s not in the position to deserve anything of his at the moment. “I don’t want to get you sick.”  

 


	10. ten

Harry’s crying.

Harry’s crying, and he can’t really remember the last time it was when he completely, full-on let himself sob and sob and sob till he’s dry, till he’s smarting from the aggression of allowing everything to finally ― finally ― be let loose.  

Right now, though, he’s sat in the corridor of his shared home next to Niall’s door, which was left ajar to spotlight the messy and unorganized room inside, and his head is in his hands and he’s crying and hiccupping and coughing and wiping snot all over the place because he’s a mess and he isn’t sure how to be without Niall here beside him.

His chest is heavy and his eyes are on fire; his body is numb but his mind and heart and soul are not, and he’s feeling so many things all at once, and each of them are blindingly painful, draining and deliberately dehydrating his entire system, and he can’t get anything back because he doesn’t know how to get it back.

He deserves to feel this way. He knows he does ― because he knows Niall heard him and Lauren in the foyer, knows Niall caught wind of the rather rude comments Harry made about asking him to leave so he can fuck Lauren on the kitchen table. Harry was joking around about doing that, really ― he sort of had it in mind to sleep with Lauren, yeah, but he would never ask Niall to leave. Ever. Niall is higher on Harry’s priority list than fucking his girlfriend, believe it or not.

Harry was only _joking_.

But it was a shit joke ― he’s realizing now that trying to lift his girlfriend’s spirits up, trying to make her smile, only brought his best friend down, down, down and destroyed his perfect, lopsided grin, disfigured his lovely laugh and bright happiness and easy glow. In trying to make Lauren happy, he’s upset Niall so completely, so horribly that Niall’s left. That Niall packed a bag and _left_.

And Harry doesn’t know for how long he’s going to be gone, doesn’t know if he’s going to come back.

Harry can’t blame him if he chooses not to, though. Harry’s been a shit friend, an absolute dick to Niall in more ways than one; he knows Niall’s sick and sort of sensitive over the fact that he isn’t as successful as the rest of them, knows Niall is very tenderhearted and too nice to voice is discomfort about certain situations, and saying things like he did, in the way that he did, really messed Niall up.

Harry fucked up. He fucked up _big_.

All he wants is Niall. All he wants is to hear Niall’s goofy laugh, is to watch stupid films together in the middle of the night and cuddle on the sofa, is to cook the weirdest foods and force them down because neither of them likes to waste anything, is to dance around the house half-naked to Bob Seger and Brue Springsteen and the Beatles ― because they’ve not done that in so long, they’ve not done it since Harry and Lauren met, and Harry’s never missed anything more in his life than he misses being with Niall.

Niall wanted Harry to call Lauren, wanted her to come back and make sure Harry isn’t alone, but Harry doesn’t want her right now, doesn’t know if he can stand to look at her because she reminds him so much of the best friend he’s about to lose. Harry wants Niall, but he can’t have Niall because he’s with Lauren, and it’s a really fucked up mess that hurts and hurts and _hurts_.

He knew dating his best friend’s cousin would be hard, knew falling in love with her would makes things even worse, but he never knew it would snap him in half and make him howl to the moon like an injured wolf calling out for his mate.

But he deserves the pain, welcomes it with a smile because it means that Niall was here, because it means that Niall holds enough importance to him to paint his soul with blacks and greys and browns instead of cerulean and fire engine red and pansy pink and lavender and yellow and forest green.

Niall is Harry’s color, Harry’s hue, and without his color Harry isn’t the rainbow Niall needs him to be.

-

“Thank you for coming over,” Harry praises Liam for what feels like the eightieth time ― it’s actually the sixth, but Harry’s only counting because Niall’s been gone for six hours, because he and Lauren have been dating for six months, because life hasn’t been the same for six months, and it fits perfectly, really, with everything ― and hands Liam his requested mug of hot cocoa. “It… it really means a lot to me. Thank you, Liam.”

“I couldn’t really say no.” Liam shrugs, offers Harry a watery, tired smile that’s jaded and entirely exhausted. He’s working too hard, and it’s obvious to Harry now just how overwhelmed Liam is. “I mean, you called crying and blubbering about how you fucked up, and I thought you killed somebody or something. That temper of yours ― I thought the worst, Harry.”

 Harry sighs and sits opposite of Liam at the island in the kitchen; he took the trash out an hour after Niall left because that’s when he picked himself up off the floor, but the scent of vomit is still heavy in the air, is still hanging tight to Harry’s senses.

“I did fuck up, Liam. I fucked up bad.”

Liam nods, takes a sip of his hot chocolate and makes a face, and all Harry can think about is how he fucked up the drink, too. It wouldn’t surprise him; lately, he’s been a master at fucking things up when he’s trying to make it all better, it seems, and he isn’t sure if anything can catch him off guard now that he knows to he needs to be looking.

“How?” Liam asks, and Harry’s eyes flash wide because he wasn’t expecting Liam to jump straight in to everything. “How did you screw up, and why did you screw up?”

“I… I messed up ‘cause I was stupid.” Harry swallows, and the rush of tears to his eyes are hot and simmering, and he feels thick, feels extra-large and as if he’s taking up more space that he should be allowed. “I said some really stupid things when I shouldn’t have, and ― and now I think I made Niall hate me. I think I messed up and ruined our friendship.”

Liam _laughs_ ― Liam actually clutches his chest, throws his head back, and laughs as loud and for as long as he can; the noise reverberates in the kitchen, catching the echoes of Niall’s giggles from earlier, when he and Harry first entered the house and Harry was talking about how Lauren should have warned him of her appearance so he would know to not shit his pants, and he frowns.

All Harry can do is frown and wipe away at a few stray tears here and there; he doesn’t think this is a laughing matter, but he isn’t the best at processing thoughts or emotions, really, so maybe he does deserve to get made fun of, maybe he does deserve to be poked fun at for once in his life. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into him, maybe it’ll make him act like a best friend is supposed to, maybe it’ll teach him how to help heal Niall’s wounded pride so he can be as bubbly and happy-go-lucky as he used to be.

“Oh, Harry, that was funny. Nice one.” Liam shakes his head and snorts, and Harry fights back the urge to bite at the fact that he wasn’t telling a joke, that he’s being absolutely honest at the moment. But he’s near tears, about to burst, and he isn’t sure if he can be taken serious with a snotty nose and red eyes and wet face. “You just don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“Harry, Niall loves you so much,” Liam says, and his voice is warm like a crackling fire is in the dark of the night, strong and flickering and protective, chasing away the bad terrors that threaten to make everything good into something awful. “You’re his best friend, and he’s your best friend, and I don’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t do for you.”

“ _Liam_.”

Harry needs to hear this ― _he does_. And he knows he does, knows Liam’s spewing the truth and trying to help, but he can’t take it. He can’t take this because it’s forcing him to recall all the good times, all the smiles and laughs and curses and hugs ― and even the bad times, too, that’s riddled with tears and swears and empty promises of hatred ― and the tsunami of acidic emotion in his chest is enough to disintegrate him from the inside.

“I reckon he would burn the whole world down in a heartbeat if it means you and he can walk through the ashes together and pick apart what’s left.” Liam takes another drink of the hot cocoa and Harry tries to process this information, tries to find the truth in Liam’s words when all he can see is Niall’s tear-stained face and the watery smiles he forced. “Harry, you and Niall ― I don’t believe in soulmates, and you all know this, but I know you do, and you and Niall are meant to be together in some way, all right? Maybe not as lovers, you know, but as friends, as family. You two just _work_.”

“But Liam,” Harry objects, shakes his head. _Hard_. “You weren’t here. You didn’t hear what I said and you’re never around enough anymore to know that Niall’s not happy with his life.”

Liam blinks once, and the moderately disgusted look on his face makes Harry wonder if he’s ever been able to do anything right. “Harry, I’m not around anymore because I’m working, for one, and my dad’s my boss so it’s quite hard to take a day off, and for two, it’s difficult to be with you when Lauren’s here because everything is about _her_. You and I aren’t dating, no, and I don’t expect to have you all to myself, but I am one of your good friends, you know, and I need attention from you sometimes, too.” Liam screws his lips up into a crooked smirk that makes Harry wince. “You matter to me, and I’ll do anything for you ― I rushed over here because I thought you needed help with a _dead_ _body_ , for fuck’s sake ― but I’m not going to be left out of your life for a girl who’s only been part of it for six months.”

Harry swallows. “I don’t do that,” Harry says, and he’s adamant and hard, very sure that Liam is wrong about Harry, very sure that he doesn’t shy away from his friends when Lauren is around. He just ― he doesn’t. He knows he doesn’t. “I know I don’t do that.”

“Harry, when’s the last time you and all four of us had time with one another?”

Shutting his eyes, Harry puts his head in his hands and begins to mentally count the days since they all helped Zayn move out, which is the last time they were together, the last time they spent the night, the last time they had a few beers and talked on into morning and ate the most unhealthy food.

That was six months ago, and Harry’s never been good at math but he knows the timelines are lining up, and he doesn’t want to let Liam know that he’s right because that would be admitting he’s absolute shit, and he isn’t sure if he can do that.

“Liam, I had no idea.”

And in a part of his mind, he didn’t. He cares for Lauren, fell in love with her quickly ― fell in love her with weird habits and odd slang and organized life and sharp intellect and total success. He fell for Lauren so quickly that he forgot about everything else, that he allowed Niall and Liam and Louis and Zayn to completely slip from his mind in favor of Lauren, Lauren, _Lauren_.

Oh, God. Oh, my God.

It’s true, isn’t it?

“Liam ―”

“Harry, are you crying?”

 _Again_? He’s crying again?

“Liam ― Liam, I’m… I’m awful. I’m the most rubbish person in the world.”

He isn’t crying, really. His eyes are leaking, and salt water is rushing from them, making his cheeks wet and his shirt collar damp, but he isn’t crying ― because crying is sound and noise and loudness, and Harry’s silent, quiet in his misery as he lets it all sink in and suck him down till he’s nothing, till he’s a crushed piece of coal with no hope of ever becoming a diamond.

He’s forgot Niall at work, slipped up by making a coconut cake instead of a carrot cake, and mindlessly poked fun at Niall’s lack of stability, and ― and he can’t change it. He can’t go back and work with the past and make it better because he doesn’t know how. He’s been away from Niall for so long, not sat down and listened to Niall’s thoughts and worries and useless ramblings, and Harry’s forgotten how to be around his own best friend.

He’s the worst _. He is the worst_.

“You didn’t mess it up, Harry,” Liam’s saying, standing up and coming around to Harry’s side; his arms wrap around Harry’s shoulders in a hug, but Harry doesn’t embrace back because he’s not in the shape to warrant affection at the moment. He may not have messed it up completely, but he’s created a rift between Niall and himself that he isn’t sure will ever be put back together. “Niall’s always been there for you. When your mum and Robin married, he was the one who went home with you so you didn’t have to go alone, and when you had your heart broken Niall’s the one that put you back together because he couldn’t handle seeing you apart.”

Harry sniffles and nods; the amount of heartbreak he’s had in his life is at a sweet minimum compared to others, but he’s softhearted himself, sensitive to the point where he feels something over everything, and that’s why his temper skyrockets at the worst times.

“And you’ve been there for him, too,” Liam continues, but Harry isn’t sure how much more he can take without completely losing his mind and seeing red, red, red. “When his parents divorced, you’re the one he slept with for two months straight because he didn’t want to feel alone, and when he aced his finals, you’re the one he wanted to tell first. You two aren’t perfect, but you’re kind of perfect together, and I don’t think what you have with Niall can ever be broken because when you love Niall, you won’t ever stop. That’s kind of impossible.”

Harry drops his head against Liam’s chest, brings his hands up to grip at Liam’s biceps, and all he can do is sob, and it’s loud and wet and very, very messy, and he wonders if this is how Niall feels on the inside, wonders if this is what Niall has to deal with every day.

And if it is, Harry’s sorry. Harry is _so sorry_.

“He’s with Louis,” Harry blurts, hard-edged and chipped; he isn’t mad at Louis for coming to get Niall. He’s mad at himself for driving Niall away. “Niall’s not here, and ― and I need him with me.”

Harry needs him, but he doesn’t deserve him.

“S’okay, Harry. Louis will take good care of him. It’s gonna be okay.”

Harry knows. Harry knows Louis will take better care of Niall than he ever did.

-

Rolling over, Harry nearly falls off the couch as he reaches for his phone on the table, slapping around till his fingers catch hold of the device. He hits the home button, and the light is bright and shocking; he sees that it’s a few hours from midnight and that nobody has tried to contact him since everything happened, and the ache in his limbs intensifies.

Liam left an hour ago, after cooking Harry a simple dinner and claiming he had work in the morning and was in need of washing some suits, and Harry let him go after a tight, tight hug because he thinks he would do better alone.

He was wrong. He’s always wrong.

Niall’s not tried to contact him, and neither has Louis; Zayn’s working on illustrating a new children’s book for his sister and he tends to be too focused to remember to charge his phone when he’s drawing. Harry doesn’t blame Zayn any; solitude is sometimes a person’s best friend.

Harry blinks, turns down the brightness and ignores his background picture ― it’s Lauren, of course, and she’s dressed in a pretty evening gown she wore to a banquet a few weeks back; it used to be him and Niall, drunk off their asses and hugging sloppily at a pub downtown where they celebrated Harry’s birthday earlier in the year ― and scrolls through his contacts till he finds Niall’s number.

It’s a number he knows by heart, one that he can recite better than his own, and the identifying photo of Niall beside it makes Harry smile, just barely ― because Niall is always blushing, always grinning, always sparkling, and even an iPhone camera can do justice to Niall’s beauty.

Harry clicks the button to call and puts the phone to his ear; it rings and rings and rings and rings, and with each passing second Harry’s heart slows to a dull throb in his chest that’s entirely too close to ceasing. The call goes to voicemail, and Niall’s chuckling, giggly voice fills his ears, and he isn’t even mad at Niall for not answering because the recorded laugh on the phone is more real than any of Niall’s smiles have been for the last six months.

And that kind of breaks Harry’s heart.

 

 


	11. eleven

“All right, you don’t have to tell me what’s happening, Ni, but I want you to know that you can,” Louis is saying immediately after Niall opens the door of the truck, tossing his bag into the cluttered backseat and hopping inside. “I’m quite rude, as you know, but I’m here for you for whatever you need. You wanna party? Sure! You wanna hang out and watch stupid movies? Sounds lovely. You wanna rob a bank? I’ll have to clear it with Kamryn first, but I’m up for anything.”

Niall puts a hand to his face and scoffs a laugh, rolling his eyes and lolling his head against the cold window; November’s just now ending and December’s beginning, and the transition is only marked on calendars and in the mind because the temperature outside is still as cold as it’s always been.

“Thanks for coming to pick me up, Lou,” Niall replies, ignoring Louis’s animated ranting and offering a watery, timid smile. He knows he needs to brighten his spirits, but he kind of just wants to wallow in a bit of self-pity for a moment; he isn’t finished being sorry for himself just yet. “It means a lot to me. Really.”

Louis hums, puts the vehicle in gear and checks his mirrors before pulling out onto the asphalt, maneuvering into the needed lane. “I told you to call me whenever you need me,” Louis says, and Niall nods because Louis did, actually ― Louis pulled Niall aside after Niall, Liam, and Zayn finished loading up the vehicles, and told Niall that it doesn’t matter where or when or why he calls Louis, really, as long as he does call.

Louis’s amazing. He’s a solid rock of utterly still foundation, and he’s got a way of making Niall smile, of making Niall laugh and feel brighter than the sunshine instead of darker than the moon.

“I know, Louis. I know.”

And Niall did. Harry hurt Niall, and Niall couldn’t take it anymore, and he called Louis. And Louis came ― unlike Harry.

Louis sighs, reaches over and grabs Niall’s hand, twining their fingers together and holding tight, and this is something Harry does, really, and that realization causes a clot of tears and bile to rise again inside of Niall, and he’s coughing into his elbow before he gets sick again because he doesn’t think Louis would fancy some vomit in the floor of his pickup.

“Look, if it’s about money, you know ―”

“It’s not!” Niall yells, cuts Louis off before he can finish his sentence. Niall’s not well off, no, and he doesn’t enjoy that being shoved in his face all the time, but he isn’t struggling, per se. Just… just not living life to the fullest at the moment, is all. It isn’t the money ― it’s _Harry_. “It’s not that. I’m fine. I’m okay there. It’s something else.”

It’s not the money, it’s Harry. Everything is Harry ― Harry is Niall’s everything in so much ways that he shouldn’t be. Niall gave all of himself to Harry, and it hurts, so much, but he doesn’t regret it because they’ve had too many good times for Niall to ever be sorry.

And his heart?

It isn’t love if it can’t break your heart, as they say.

And maybe it is love. Maybe he’s in love with Harry, but it’s hard to describe something he’s never felt before. Sometimes he feels like he’s in the secluded basement of an exclusive night club, bathed in neon light and stinking of life; other times, he feels like he’s at the bottom of a deep pool with blurred, glimmering sunlight drawing him in and guiding him to the surface. He mostly feels like a crater on the dark, dark side of the moon, though, void of light and freezing and filled with dust.

Niall himself is a broken house in the middle of the wilderness, surrounded by trees and trees and trees, and Harry is the fractured sunlight shining in through the broken windows that’s Niall’s heart, coloring Niall’s dilapidated world with fascinating color.

Niall isn’t sure if he’s in love with Harry, but he’s close. He’s so close.

Louis makes a noise and grips Niall’s fingers tighter. “You can tell me, Nu, but you don’t have to, all right?” Louis says again, and his voice is worried, heavy with some sort of deep emotion that makes Niall want to sprout out of the wilted flower he’s become. “You don’t have to tell me, but I really want to know. Like, _really_ bad.”

Niall smiles, and it’s a grin that hurts his cheeks and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners because it’s real ― because it’s so, so real. “I’ll tell you, Lou.”

“Really?” Louis asks, overly excited and entirely too eager. “You’ll tell me?”

“If we go out to that café next to Liam’s office and grab a bite to eat,” Niall proposes, biting on the skin of his thumb; it doesn’t hurt, really, because he’s numb from physical pain, and he isn’t sure when he’s going to regain any sort of feeling. “I’m… I’m hungry. And I’ll buy.”

Louis nods. “You’re a man after my own heart, Ni.”

Niall makes a face and looks out of the window, refusing to glance in the mirror to see if Harry’s chasing after him because he knows he’ll only be disappointed. He wonders how he can take care of someone else’s heart when he doesn’t have one for himself, wonders if he’ll ever be able to say he’s whole and completed and okay and content with his life.

Content because Harry being in love with him is happiness, and happiness doesn’t exist in Niall’s world.

-

“How’s work?” Niall asks as he sits and begins to arrange the sliced turkey sandwich on his plate, picking off the stringy lettuce and tossing it into a paper napkin and folding it together. He’s hungry, as he tends to be quite a lot, and he’s only praying he can keep his meal down after he’s heaved the others up.

Louis huffs, bites into his steaming hot calzone, whimpers as the sauce burns his tongue and makes his eyes water. “Shit,” he grunts, grabbing at his iced Coke and taking two huge gulps to wash down the heat. “To be quite fucking honest, it’s shit. It’s cold as hell and I’ve ruined too many pairs of shoes doing jobs I’ve got no certification in and… and I don’t have enough time for lunch, either.”

Niall grabs a fresh napkin and hides his little grin behind the thickness. “Louis, you sound like a child.”

“I feel like a child,” Louis replies, snorting and shaking his head; he puts his hands on the table and folds them together, and Niall’s disappointed to see that there still isn’t a ring on his left finger. “Kamryn does everything for me, and I hardly do shit for her.”

Niall wrinkles his nose and pinches the white lace tablecloth between his fingers; it’s soft and pure and strong and crisp, like cotton candy and clean bedsheets and dewy sunshine in the early mornings. Niall’s not appreciated by the person he holds higher than the rest, but in his neglect he’s learned to appreciate everything else. He can’t say Harry hasn’t showed him anything useful.

“Maybe she’s just practicing, you know,” Niall says, chewing on the inside of his lip. “I mean, she’s due in, like, four months, and she’s probably just trying to get a feel of how to take care of another person before she really has to buckle down.”

“We’re naming her Raleigh Elaine,” Louis announces, and the smile on his face is warm and gentle and full of strength, like the flickering flames of a camp fire in the billowing wind, and Louis reminds Niall of a butterfly in the rain. “Kam wanted something classy, and I wanted something sassy. We compromised.”

Niall grins, and he doesn’t try to hide this smile because he knows Louis needs to see it, needs to know that his choice of moving in with Kamryn to help raise their baby is one of the best decisions he’s ever made in his life.

“That’s lovely.” Niall smiles, scratches at the nape of his neck; he can’t wait for Raleigh Elaine to be born because Niall remembers how adrenalized and rushed and hectic and beautiful with peace everything was when Theo was born. It was a mess, but it was amazing, and he’ll never forget the way it felt to hold his nephew in his arms for the first time. “I can’t wait till she’s here.”

Louis blushes, turns a happy shade of reddish pink that reminds Niall of too-sweet suckers, and nods. “Me either,” he says; the joy in his tone is thick, and Niall never thought Louis would be so happy, so energized, to have a baby. Louis looks like he’s full of quiet fire. “But, changing the subject, we’ve got your Christmas present.”

Niall gulps and blanches because fuck, he’s not even tried to do a bit of his shopping yet, and he knows he needs to before he messes up yet another thing that makes him happy.

“And I think you’ll like it,” Louis continues, giving Niall a secretive smile. “It’s from all of us, and ― and yeah. I really think you’ll like it.”

“Louis ―”

“And I’m also not supposed to tell you what it is, but I am,” Louis cuts him off, and Niall rolls his eyes because this has happened for the last few years now: Louis can’t keep his mouth shut when it comes to keeping secrets for Christmas. “Lauren has found you a flat down the street from mine, and it’s a nice little place with two bedrooms and a bathroom and living room and kitchen, and we’ve all paid a month’s rent for you. You don’t have to worry about paying anything for five months, Ni, and by then you’ll have saved up enough to live comfortably, I’m sure.”

_Oh my God._

No. _No_.

Lauren’s doing it. Lauren already has Harry, already has a successful job that their family brags about every change they get, already has a strong sense of joy that’s jaded beyond her years, and now she’s trying to take Niall’s home from him, trying to take Niall’s house because that’s the one thing she doesn’t have yet, the one thing she can’t say she has claim to yet.

And the realization that Lauren’s fucking his life up, that Lauren’s taking every good thing that Niall has and warping it in her hands and molding it to fit into her lifestyle, to flex with her balance of thought, makes him sick to his stomach again, but he can’t puke, can’t make the emotions come up physically because he’s numb to everything except the mental anguish, the emotional brokenness that makes him feel like the Titanic, like he’s the world’s most prestigious cruise liner with a gaping gash in the side of his body, allowing the blood that is hopes and dreams of hundreds of people ooze out endlessly.

He’s _crying_.

He’s crying again, and the tears are cold this time because very ounce of heat has left his body, has fled from his vessel to warm somebody else ― to warm Lauren, to warm Harry, to warm their perfect relationship that’s ripping Niall in half and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing till all he can see is black and black and _black_.

“Niall?”

Louis is careful and soft, gentle and cautious as he reaches out for Niall’s hand; the expression on his face is worrisome, pale and displaced on Louis’s naturally happy self, and Niall’s trembling because he’s let his parents down, because he’s let his friends down, because he’s let Harry down, because he’s let himself down.                                                                                                                     

“No, Louis.” Niall shakes his head and coughs, blinking fast and hard and rapid because Louis’s face is a smeared, raw imagine blurred at the edges with running paint and crinkles of discomfort that color his expression. “No. _Don’t_.”

“Niall, what is going on?”

And Niall tells Louis everything then. He opens his mouth, clears his mind, hardens his heart, steadies his soul, and tells Louis _everything_.

He tells Louis about how it began, about how Niall immediately felt like he was in the presence of a king when he walked in on Louis and Harry experimenting with one another, about how Harry made Niall red and hard and soft and warm and cold all at once with a stupid joke that Harry’s forgotten but Niall will never forget. He tells Louis about the beginning of the development, about how it started out as just a smile and just a hug and just a laugh and just a night with one another, about how it turned into _the_ smile and _the_ hug and _the_ laugh and _the_ nights spent with one another.

Niall doesn’t hold anything back. He talks about how Harry makes him feel at ease, at peace with himself; talks about how Harry’s smile is fire and how Harry’s laugh is water; talks about the weird signals and mixed emotions, about the instances when Harry hinted that he was feeling the same but didn’t act on it. He talks about how Harry makes him not miss everything so much anymore, about how Harry is truly Niall’s best, _best_ friend.

Niall tells Louis about the family reunion, about Lauren and how she stole Harry from him, about how they danced and danced and danced, about how Harry crawled into bed with him at four in the morning with stinky breath and messy hair and red lips and wet underwear, about how Harry cuddled and touched and held Niall close to his kiss-bruised chest, about the promises and swears he made that he broke the next day when he asked Lauren out for coffee, that he broke a week later when he asked Lauren out for breakfast, that he broke one month later when he and Lauren finally defined themselves as HarryandLauren.

And Niall talks about the loneliness, about the lies and apologies, about the disloyalty and hurt and incomprehensible nastiness Niall feels when he sees Harry kiss Lauren, when he sees Harry touch Lauren, when he sees Harry with Lauren.

And Louis listens. He grabs Niall’s hand on top of the table, intertwines their fingers, gives Niall his complete attention, and _listens_ , soaking everything in with a grace, with an elegance and eloquence that only Louis has.

“You love him,” Louis says once Niall’s finished, once the café is thirty minutes away from closing and there’s a pile of crushed plastic cups of coffee occupying their table along with half-eaten food that’s gone cold hours before. “You’re in love with Harry, aren’t you?”

“He’s my world, and ― and he doesn’t even know it,” Niall replies, and his eyes are red and burning and wet but he isn’t crying anymore, isn’t shedding a tear because Louis has hold of his hand tight enough to keep him from falling apart. “And I think that’s what hurts the most, ya know: giving someone the ability to control everything about you without asking if they wanted that power.” He shrugs, offers a viscid smile that Louis scoffs at. “I gave Harry everything and I didn’t ask if he wanted it. And now I’m paying for it.”

Louis shakes his head and smiles, and his eyes are dry but his face is flushed with color. “You love him.”

“I don’t know if I do,” Niall answers, and he’s telling the truth, speaking from the heart. “I don’t know if I love Harry, but ― but I will. I know I will. And I know there’s no stopping it. Lauren’s taken Harry from me, Louis, and now she wants to take my home, and I can’t stop her because she makes Harry happy, and all I want is for him to be happy even if it isn’t with me.”

And if that’s love, then yeah, Niall’s in love.

“It’s not about the house, is it?” Louis asks, wetting his lips; he’s taking this particularly well for somebody who has a temper as large as the Pacific, though even Louis’s fiery personality doesn’t compare to Harry’s anger. “You made Harry your home. The house isn’t your home. Harry is.”

Niall blanches, gasps and coughs; his eyes are wet again and his throat hurts and every joint and nerve in his body is crying and weeping with the darkest of emotions that color his soul with drab dankness. “Louis, I ―”

“You’re not going back,” Louis interrupts, and his voice is filled with a soft finality that makes Niall’s warm, bleeding heart began to thaw like a lake after the coldest winter on record. “You’re not going back there ever again.”

-

It’s nearly midnight, Niall thinks, and he’s surrounded by darkness, burrowed beneath the borrowed blankets Kamryn gave to him before she and Louis went to their separate bedrooms for the night. It’s nearly midnight, and Niall’s cold, and the dark around him reminds him of the black hole in his stomach, of the shattered glass of love in his heart, of the fact that he’s never going to be able to heal by himself.

He’s been gone from Harry and their home for several hours now, and he hasn’t tried to ring Harry, hasn’t tried to get hold of anybody, though Liam and Zayn did send a quick text a bit ago to make sure he was more stable than he had been. Louis advised him it would probably be better to not talk to Harry for a bit, and he listened, is trying to force himself to still listen.

And it’s sad, too, because he always thought Harry would chase after him, always thought Harry would fight tooth and nail, hell and high water, to find him.

He was wrong. He’s always wrong.

Abruptly, his phone lights up in the darkness, and he rolls over to grab it, to bring it to his face so he can see who’s calling him, and he really should’ve known that it would’ve happened sooner or later, should’ve known it would’ve happened eventually.

But he doesn’t answer the call, just lets it ring and ring and ring and ring, and with each passing second Niall’s voice begins to pound, begins to race and rage and roar; when it goes to voicemail, there’s a hot prickle of wetness at the corners of his eyes, and he’s only crying because he knows that the laugh and smile that Harry’s hearing on the other end is the last time he was ever really happy.

And that kind of breaks Niall’s heart.

 


	12. twelve

It’s been three days.

It’s been three days, and thirty-one missed calls, and forty-seven unread messages, and hours and hours and hours of crying. It’s been three days, and thirty-one missed calls, and forty-seven unread messages, and Niall hasn’t replied to a single one, hasn’t offered a quick text or ring to let Harry know that everything is okay.

But of course everything is okay. Everything is okay because Niall isn’t with Harry anymore.

It’s been three days, and Harry’s throat is raw from crying and his chest is heavy from the racking sobs that sing him to sleep like his mum used to when he was younger, when he still needed to be nurtured by somebody who loved him unconditionally.

And in those three days, Harry’s moved about like a robot, like a device programmed to work and work and work and _work_ ; with all the overtime he’s put in since Niall left, Harry ought to have a pretty paycheck in the mail soon, and maybe that’s the only good thing to come out of Niall’s disappearance.

He didn’t disappear, though, because Harry knows exactly where Niall is. He’s with Louis, and he’s okay ― he’s more okay now than he has been in the last six months. He’s with Louis, and Harry doesn’t have to worry about Niall because he knows ― because it’s been proven over and over and over ― that Louis will do anything for Niall, that Louis will rage and fight and bring the world to its knees for Niall. Niall deserves everything.

Yeah, Louis will take care of Niall, but who is going to take care of Harry?

The doorbell rings, and it’s a loud noise that filters through Harry’s clustered mind and brings him up from his cocoon on the sofa; he grabs the thick blanket and wraps it around his shoulders before standing and walking toward the door, tripping and stumbling over the length.

His legs are wobbly and his hands are pale, shaking as they turn the knob, and Harry swings the door wide; on the other side is Lauren, and her light brown hair is braided over her shoulder and the hoodie she’s wearing belongs to him, is one that she borrowed from him at a football match and forgot to give back, and she’s smiling sweetly, softly, and she looks so welcoming, so inviting and warm and layered with silkiness.

He doesn’t care about the hoodie, doesn’t care that he should feel heat in his tummy at seeing his girlfriend. He doesn’t care about much of anything at the moment, really.

“Harry, baby?” Lauren’s voice is soft and quiet, and her hands are a weird mixture of cold and warm as she reaches to cup his face from outside. “Harry, are you okay?”

It’s been three days since he’s last seen Niall, yes, but it’s also been three days since he’s talked with Lauren, too, and he’s feeling everything at the moment, magnified and very, very loud.  

He nods, dislodging her hold on his face and stepping to the side, offering her room to come in. She does, worried and almost scared and cautious, and she’s looking at Harry, staring at him with wide blue eyes that are darker than Niall’s, smaller than Niall’s.

And he knows what she’s seeing.

She’s seeing his messy, greasy hair; she’s seeing his unshaven, scruffy face; she’s seeing his wild eyes and pale complexion and chapped lips and red nose; she’s seeing wrinkled clothing and mismatched socks and shaking hands and ink-stained fingers. She’s seeing somebody who’s on the crisp of losing his mind, of losing himself because he’s too full of everything else.

“Harry?”

Harry just shakes his head, reaches out and grabs her shoulder, pulling her into his chest; she’s short and warm, smelling of flowery perfume, and her curvy softness gives into his body, but it isn’t what he wants, isn’t what he needs.

He needs Niall’s hard chest and sinewy arms and scratchy jaw; he wants Niall’s loud laugh and odd sense of humor and lucid touches and benign actions. Harry wants Niall here with him so he can apologize, so he can get on his knees and beg forgiveness for ever making Niall think he’s anything less than perfect.

He just wants his best friend back because Harry believes in soulmates, believes that people are made for each other, and Niall is his in the most intimately platonic ways.

“Harry, is everything okay?”

He puts his face in her hair and sniffles; he isn’t crying, though, because he’s cried everything out that he could, and there isn’t enough water left in his body to sob. “Everything’s fine,” he replies, strains to grind out against the top of her head; the blanket falls off of his shoulders and pools around his feet. “But I’m not.”

“Oh, Harry.”

And she wraps her arms around his waist, locks her hands and squeezes and squeezes and squeezes, but she isn’t Niall, she isn’t what Harry needs, and she can’t heal Harry in the way Niall can.

“S’okay, Lauren,” he breathes, pets her back and pulls in a tight breath; he’s settling, and he never thought he would have to. “It’s okay.”

“But it isn’t,” she coughs into his chest, presses her face onto the space where his heart is beating fast and quick and swift. “I talked to Kamryn, and she let me know what’s going on with Niall.”

Harry freezes; an ache forms in the backs of his legs and he falls backward against the wall, taking Lauren with him. “What’s going on?” he asks ― demands ― and he’s surprised to find that his voice is strong, that his words aren’t wavering even though his heart is shaking. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s moving into the flat earlier than expected.”

And those words create such a dark confusion in Harry that he grabs Lauren by the elbows and shoves her away so he can look into her eyes and divulge her expression.

He narrows his eyes, swallows around the nasty lump of bile in his throat. “What flat?” he asks with a crinkled nose and a thick accent of befuddled irritation. “What are you talking about, Lauren?”

A small smile lifts at the corners of her dry lips, and she crosses her arms in a proud, smug way that rubs Harry roughly. “I was looking around last month and found a nice, affordable flat that Niall could move in to,” she explains, and Harry’s blood is running cold, cold, cold. She has no right ― _no fucking right_. “It’s in a lovely area near Louis, and the cost is low; I had my agent keep an eye on it till last week because I thought Niall might like to have a place to call his own. I thought he would like to not have to depend on others, and ―”

“You didn’t tell me about this,” Harry interrupts her, and his fingers are numb but his hands are shaking, and he shoves them into the pockets of his sweatpants to hide his welling panic and festering anger because that’s yet another thing he can’t explain. “You didn’t tell me, Lauren.”

“I… I wanted it to be a surprise for you, too,” she explains, and her voice is soft, shifting back and forth between confident and uncertain. “I thought Niall might like the independence living on his own would bring, and I thought you’d be happy for him.”

Does Lauren even know Harry at all?

Niall’s not been on his own before. He’s never lived by himself, never had to come home to an empty house, never had to fill the quietness with stupid television shows and too loud music that warranted attention from the law. Niall’s been out of his home, out of Ireland, for four years, but he’s never been on his own ― he’s never had to be alone.

And even if Niall had the chance to go, had the ability to leave if he wished to, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t go because he doesn’t like being alone, doesn’t like everything quiet when he loves it loud. Harry knows Niall ― there’s nobody in the world who knows Niall better than Harry, and he’s fucked up a lot, yes, but he’s still Niall’s best friend. He’s still one of the most important people in Niall’s life.

Niall won’t leave. _He won’t_.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Lauren gives him a steady look that makes his stomach feel queasy. “How?” she orders him to explain himself, and she sounds really, really authoritative all of a sudden. “How is it stupid, Harry?”

Harry laughs, smothers his humorless chuckles with an uneasy hand. “You actually think he’ll leave?” he voices his thoughts with a deep snort, and he’s aware that he’s acting like an asshole but Lauren’s idea of finding Niall a home are in vain ― _because Niall isn’t going to leave._

“Yeah, I do.” She puts her hands on her hips, and she’s gained a bit of weight, Harry realizes, and she looks nice, looks beautiful, looks gorgeous in a plumper, rounder kind of way. Harry’s always had a hot kink for love handles, anyway; they’re perfect to grab onto during sex, perfect to bite and dig his nails into with unfettered passion. “In fact, Louis called me a few days ago and confirmed the plans.”

Harry scoffs. “What plans?”

Lauren smiles. “We’ve all paid a month’s rent for Niall ahead of time,” she replies, and Harry starts shaking, starts quaking from the inside; his soul is rattling in an empty chest and all he can taste is desperation, is the intense need to make everything okay before it’s all wrong. “He doesn’t have to worry about paying anything for five months, and by that time I’m sure he’ll have saved up enough money to live comfortably. Kamryn’s even trying to find him an opening somewhere for an art major, too.”

No, no, no, _no_ ― this can’t be happening. This can’t be happening because Harry refuses to let it, refuses to allow Niall to leave, refuses to allow their friends to decide his future, his path for him in life just because he’s a little bit behind.

“No.” He shake his head. “No, you are not doing that. You are _not_ going to do that Niall.”

“Do what?” Lauren asks, stepping closer and slanting her head. She’s genuinely curious, actually confused; she thinks she’s helping but she isn’t. She’s making everything worse. “What am I not going to do?”

Harry’s close ― he’s so close to losing himself, so close to blowing his top; he scratches his hands over his scalp, tugs at his hair hard enough that he feels the pain in the soles of his feet.

“You can’t make those decision for Niall,” Harry replies, and he’s trying to be civil, trying to be calm, trying to be nice ― but his heart is racing and his breath is a stuttering mess of unorganized inhales and exhales, and he feels hot and mortified and scared. He’s _scared_. He’s scared, and his vision is blurring with red, and he knows he’s close to blowing up. “You can’t force Niall to move out of his home when he doesn’t want to.”

Lauren licks her lips, gives Harry a small smile that makes his heart hurt, that makes his soul bleed, that makes his mind scream and howl in the most disgusting bout of pain he’s ever felt.

“Harry, I’m not making Niall do anything,” she says, soft and easy, and she’s trying to understand Harry’s anger, trying to justify Harry’s hell, but she can’t. She can’t because she doesn’t know what Niall means to him, because she’ll never understand. Hell, even Harry doesn’t know what Niall completely means to him, really, and he’s trying to understand. _He is_. “Niall wants to move out, baby. He wants to leave this house and start to make a home of his own.”

The dam inside of Harry that keeps his turmoil and sanity in a somewhat cloaked area kind of breaks, and he’s flooding with everything.

And he’s raging mad, seeing red; he lets out a howl, slams his fist backward into the wall, and he doesn’t care if he’s leaving a mark, if he’s leaving a hole, because Niall isn’t going to be here to see what Harry’s broken, to see what Harry’s done in the wake of losing his best friend.

“Niall can’t leave!” Harry yells, shouts at the top of his lungs, and the house is big, yes, but it’s surrounded by people, hugged on either side, and he knows they can hear his outburst, knows they can hear him squeal with fury, knows they’re probably standing close to the phones just in case. “He isn’t going to leave ― _that’s not fair_!”

“Harry ―”

“ _No_!”

There’s tears in Harry’s eyes, and they’re burning his vision, making everything blurry and red and smeared and crimson, and all he wants is Niall, Niall, _Niall_ ― because Harry’s red and Niall’s blue, because Harry is fire and Niall is water, and they fit so well, so sweetly, so wonderfully; Niall balances Harry, and Harry makes up for the things that Niall falls short at.

“Harry, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s not worth it.”

And ― and how dare she? _How dare she?_

Niall’s worth it. Niall’s worth everything ― because nobody knows Harry like Niall does, because they’ll never understand, because they don’t know what Harry and Niall have been through. And there’s no chance in the world for them to help Harry because Niall is the only one who can make sense out of Harry’s mixed emotions.

If Niall moves out, if he leaves, nobody knows what Harry’s going to be losing. Niall is Harry’s best friend.

“Harry.”

She’s walking forward, and he’s crying, and she’s trying to smile, and he’s furiously wiping at his tears, and she’s reaching out, and he’s shying away, and she’s not stopping, and he is because his back is against the wall, because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, because he’s ran out of room to move, to breathe, to see, to think.

“Harry ―”

“Leave.”

It’s a whisper, fierce and strong and dense, and Harry’s face is hot and wet as he raises his eyes off the ground, as he meets Lauren’s frightened gaze. It’s a whisper, and it’s mean and rude, but he means it. She needs to go ― she needs to leave _now_.

“Harry, baby. Just ―”

“ _Leave_!” he yells, cuts her off, and he’s never raised his voice at Lauren, never shown her this ugly side of him before. His temper is red, but his head is blue and his soul is faded yellow and his soul is pink, and if colors truly are of any important significance in the world, he’s a fucking mess. “Leave, Lauren. _Please_. Just… just leave, okay?”

She’s torn. Her expression is scared and angry, bewildered and apologetic, and she’s torn in a way that’s similar to Harry’s inner fight to make things right.

She nods. “Okay, Harry,” she says, reaching out and laying her hand on his cheek. He flinches, and her palm becomes wet; he puts a kiss to her wrist before turning away from her touch and pointing at the door. “Okay. I love you.”

Harry nods ― Harry nods, doesn’t say it back, and she leaves, and Harry’s empty and alone, and it’s silent except for his sobs, except for his hiccupped tears and infuriated whispers. He tips his head back, sinks low to the floor, grabs the blanket to wrap around his shoulders, and puts his face in his hands and _screams_.

He screams with hope, with anger, with passion and impatience. He screams to make things better, to let things out, to wipe off the bleary layer of tangible, viscid discomfort in the air. He screams to clear his head, to erase his heart, to open his throat.

And it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work because Harry remembers why he’s acting so wild in the first place, remembers why he’s falling into a black abyss that he may never come out of.

Niall’s leaving. Niall is going to pack his bags, is going to take everything that he owes, and leave Harry.

The thought of living in this house without Niall is a nightmare, is something that makes Harry recall the dark images that terrorized his sleepless nights as a child. Not having Niall here is a bad dream, but knowing that Niall will never be back is a nightmare.

He needs Niall. Oh my God, he needs Niall so, so bad.

He needs to hear Niall’s laugh, needs to hear Niall’s voice, needs to see Niall’s smile, needs to feel Niall against him, beside him, with him. He needs Niall in every way: mentally, physically, emotionally.

He just needs Niall.

There’s a noise outside the door that breaks Harry’s attention from the crumbling world around him, and he takes his head out of his hands, wipes at the bleariness in his eyes to see that it’s opening, that it’s swinging wide, that the person he wants and needs the most is standing right outside their home, and he kind of looks like he’s been crying, too.

“Niall?”

 

 


	13. thirteen

“Oh, Harry.”

Harry’s up in an instant, in a blurred flash of movement; he can’t think about what he’s doing, won’t think about what he’s doing, refuses to see right and wrong when they are only two opinions borne of the same mantle. And he’s rushing forward, tripping over his feet and grabbing greedily at Niall’s shoulders, jerking Niall inside the house and slamming the door; his arms are long and sinewy as they wrap around Niall’s body, as they lock Niall’s chest against his, as they hug Niall close.

He’s crying ― he’s crying again, but this time he’s with Niall, this time he’s pressed into Niall, pressed against Niall. He’s crying again, but he didn’t ever stop, really.

“Niall?” Harry’s mystified, caught off guard and feeling full of heavy gold at the moment because Niall is here ― _Niall is here_ , and Harry honestly believed he wasn’t going to come back, thought Niall had finally had enough of his ridiculous, pitiful ways.

But he’s here. He’s here, and he smells like peppermint and vanilla, and his arms are rising, are winding around Harry’s slumped shoulders as his hands curl through Harry’s hair, brushing out the nasty snarls that not brushing the greasy mess for three days brought on, and he’s here.

Niall’s here, and ― and oh, oh God, Harry is _alive_. Harry feels so inflated with life that he can’t breathe, that he can’t see, that he can’t think. Niall is here, and Harry is alive, and Harry’s crying and Niall’s talking and it’s like nothing has changed but everything has. Everything has changed.

Because Niall’s back, yes, but he isn’t going to stay. He’s leaving ― he’s moving out.

“Niall?” Harry tries again, pulling his face out of Niall’s chest; his vision is smeared with tears and Niall’s face is blurry, but his big blue eyes are bright, illuminating and deeper than the ocean, and Harry feels at home in a peaceful, soft way. “Niall, when… when are you ―”

“I didn’t come here to talk about it, Harry,” Niall interrupts, and his voice is thick and heavy, weighing on Harry’s drooping shoulders like a lead ball. “I didn’t come here to talk about leaving, okay? I came here to be with you.”

Harry swallows; his body is shaking, shuddering, and Niall’s arms are a tight set of armor that’s holding him together, that’s keeping him from falling completely apart.

“I’m sorry, Niall,” Harry blurts, gushes, and it’s out before he can control it, over and over and over: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He says it over. And over and over and over, till it’s a tattoo of words across his heart, till it’s a bitter taste of regret on his tongue, till it’s a burning thought at the forefront of his mind. Harry apologizes over and over and over, and it feels like he’s running around in circles, like he’s racing the darkness with no end in sight.

But Niall deserves it all. Niall deserves to be fought for, deserves to be loved, deserves to be taken care of in a proper way.

Niall deserves everything, but he doesn’t deserve Harry. Harry isn’t worth it.

“Stop,” Niall intervenes; his tone is more dense and oppressed than it was just a moment ago, and it makes Harry want to puke up the bile that’s accumulating in his throat. “Please, Harry. Just stop.” He’s pleading, and his eyes are red-rimmed and wet and his face is blushing pink and he’s crying, too, quiet and tender, and Harry can’t help but think how beautifully, how stunningly strong Niall is in front of him, standing like a Greek statue embodying faith and hope and love.

But primarily love because it’s the most important thing out of the three, in Harry’s opinion.

“Oh, Niall.”

It’s an awkward mess of limbs as Harry tangles his arms tighter around Niall’s neck, as Harry shoves himself forward and knocks Niall against the hard door, as Harry adheres his body to Niall’s in a comforting, sorrowful way. Harry’s quite tall, as is Niall; however, Harry is a bit bigger, a palm’s length larger, and it hurts his back to stoop, makes a pain begin to ache in the small of his spine to bend and nuzzle his face into Niall’s neck. It hurts, but he doesn’t care.

He just doesn’t care.

Niall smells like cold sunshine and warm blankets and fiery kisses; like the tops of Ferris wheels and the bottoms of uncharted caves and the thicket of moonlit wilderness. Niall smells like adventure, like strength, spicy and sweet, and he feels like the wind that’s weeping in through a rolled down window on a warm afternoon, and Harry breathes it in, soaks it up, prays the scent will have the same effect on him as it does Niall.

Because he needs some strength, some solitude in who he is and what he wants ― and he knows he doesn’t want Niall to leave. _Ever_. They’re best friends, yeah, but Harry loves Niall like a brother, like a missing piece of himself ― Niall is Harry’s soulmate, is one of Harry’s most favorite people in the whole entire world.

Niall can’t leave. He _can’t_.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah?” Niall suggests, warm and tender and sturdy as he rubs Harry’s back, as he scratches Harry’s scalp, as he drips a little bit of his strength into Harry’s heart, into Harry’s soul. “Does that sound okay?”

Harry nods and sniffles, and he’s ruining Niall’s scarf with his snotty tears, but he doesn’t care about that, either. He’ll buy Niall a new one ― he’ll buy Niall every fucking scarf in London if he’ll just stay here with him for a little while. Whatever Niall wants, he can have ― as long as he’ll _stay_.

“Okay.” Harry leans away, grabs the collar of his wrinkled shirt and wipes at the waterfall of tears that’s gushing from his eyes. “That’s okay.”

He reaches out, sticks his fingers through the belt loops of Niall’s jeans, tugging him forward. They’re slow and methodical, and Niall is facing Harry as Harry drags him through the filthy house, down the dark corridor, around the corner, past the bathroom and into the room at the end ― Niall’s eyes are wide and his mouth is parted, and he’s staring at Harry as if Harry hung the moon, as if Harry is the reason the stars shine every night.

He isn’t. Harry’s not that special ― but Niall is. Niall’s one of the reasons Harry smiles every day because he is absolute sunshine.

Niall wriggles his hips, moves out of Harry’s grip; he shuts the door and turns the lock, and then he’s walking forward, flicking on the seashell lamp that is sat on a nightsand next to Harry’s messy, black-sheeted bed. The room opens up wide, as if the sun is standing inside ― and dammit, but the sun is in the room with Harry because Niall is the sun, and he’s staring at Harry, giving Harry a wet, limp look that hurts and hurts and _hurts_ , and Harry doesn’t want to be the reason why the sun doesn’t shine anymore.

“Niall?”

Niall shakes his head and reaches up to unwind the scarf that’s around his neck; it’s light gray with red and black stripes, but the color is darker where Harry has smudged the cloth, has stained the pretty designs. Once it’s off, it’s a weird ball of yarn on the hardwood floor, and Niall’s neck is covered in gooseflesh, but Harry knows it’s warm, knows the skin smells like honeysuckle and homemade love, and Harry just wants to be there, just wants to be as close to Niall as he possibly can be because he has the red feeling that this is going to be the last time he’ll have a chance. .

“I’m going to lay down,” Niall announces, slow and languid; his fingers fiddle with the buttons of his jacket and he’s indolent as he undoes them, and Harry’s nearly too busy watching the way Niall’s hands move to think coherently. “And I’d like it if you lay down with me, too.”

And Harry moves fast as lightning, really, as he jerks his loose, crinkled shirt up over his head, as he unties the jaw string of his too long, too large sweatpants and shoves them low, walking out of the itchy fabric, and he’s left in nothing but his mismatched socks ― one is cut to fit his ankle while the other is tickling at the bottom of his kneecap ― and tight, blue underwear and he’s in the bed, under the covers, between the sheets as Niall undresses, as well, taking his time as he slides out of his boots and jeans and Henley and thermals.

Niall’s warm under the blankets, hot between the sheets, and he’s a furnace that Harry rolls into, that Harry plasters himself against, that Harry tangles himself inside ― because Niall’s warm, on the outside as well as in, and Harry’s cold, cold, cold. He’s too cold to function almost; his fingers are icy as they trace along the contours of Niall’s back, as they dig into the dimples at the bottom of his spine and caress the fleshy pudge at the swell of Niall’s hips. He has a kinky attraction to love handles, and Lauren’s hips aren’t the only ones that can make Harry swoon, it seems.

“Niall?” Harry’s quiet, too shallow to be heard, and he clears his throat, swallows around the broad lump of anguish that’s welled in the middle of his esophagus. “Niall?”

“Yeah?” Niall turns, rolls over onto his side and forces Harry to face the other way, and now Niall’s cuddling against Harry’s back, hugging his body ― and it’s been such a long, long time since Harry’s felt this at ease with himself that he sighs in pleasure. “What is it, Harry?”

Lauren’s his girlfriend, of course, and he loves her ― _he does_ ― but right now he’s upset at her, upset at her warped mindset, and Niall is his best friend. Niall is the one person Harry knows he can always ― _always_ ― turn to; when everything is dark, Niall will be his light.

And that thought makes him feel hotter than lava, stronger than rock.

“Niall, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You say that a lot.” Niall’s breath is a strange mix between cold and warm, chilly and stuffy, against Harry’s neck and ear, and it makes him shiver, makes him absently burrow himself closer. “S’like all you say now.”

Harry makes a wet noise in the back of his throat, and he’s almost crying again; he fists the sheets with the hand that isn’t curled with Niall’s and brings it to his face, balls the fabric under his eyes and wipes as the liquid falls because he doesn’t want to be weak, doesn’t want to give in to the rage that’s burning him up from the inside.  

“I know ― I know I do.” And he does know, and he’s also aware of the many, many times Niall has forgiven him of his idiocy. In fact, if their roles were reversed, Harry isn’t sure if he would be as lenient as Niall, which just goes to show how fucking perfect Niall is, really. “And I mean it. Each and every time I say it, I mean it, okay? I mean it. Don’t you ever think otherwise, Niall. Okay?

Niall nods. “I don’t ― I don’t, Harry. I promise.” He shimmies his bicep beneath Harry’s cheek, curls his arm up and puts his hand into Harry’s thick, glossy hair, and Harry purrs like a kitten, hums like a sated animal. “I know you mean it. But… but you can’t say those nasty things to Lauren about me.”

“Niall ―”

“ _No_.” Niall is harsh and firm and full of authority as he ceases Harry’s irrelevant argument. The stoniness in his voice makes Harry shiver, makes Harry snap his eyes shut and squeeze them tight till all he can see is an explosion of colors outlined by black, black, black. “You’re gonna listen to me ‘cause I don’t know when I’m going to have the courage to say this again.”

“Okay.”

Because what else can he say? What else can he exploit and abuse; what else can he wring the blood out of, what else can he make bleed and bleed and bleed before Niall absolutely leaves, loses his mind and stays gone forever?

Harry owes Niall his undivided attention, owes Niall everything that he isn’t giving him.

“The way you are with Lauren ― how you are with Lauren kind of makes me sick.” To the point where he’ll actually throw up, Harry adds; he knows Niall wasn’t vomiting because he was sick three days ago, knows the words and promises he was whispering sensually to Lauren is what brought up the food Niall put down at the mall. “And I know you and her are in love, and I know you both probably want me gone so you can move in with one another, but for fuck’s sake, Harry, I miss you. _I miss you_ , and I hardly ever get to see you or spend time with you, and ―”

“You’re wrong,” Harry interrupts, wriggles away from Niall and curls around in his arms till they’re facing one another; the lamp is gentle as it bathes them in a soft glow, and Niall looks like an angel in the light, like Harry’s own personal saving grace. “You’re _so_ wrong, Ni.”

Niall’s brows crinkle, and his eyes are big and bright, lighter than Lauren’s and all around clearer ― _so gorgeous_. “What are you trying to say?”

Harry smiles, and it hurts but it feels good, too, because it’s real in all the right ways. “You’re wrong about me wanting you gone, baby,” he replies, and where the pet name came from he isn’t sure, doesn’t want to dig in to. Niall is Harry’s baby, and that’s it ― that’s final. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to go away from me.”

And he doesn’t ― he doesn’t at all. He bought an engagement ring for Lauren, yes, and with marriage comes living together, of course, but he has no heart to move in with her yet; he likes the situation he’s in, likes knowing he was a home with Niall and a second house with Lauren.

Besides, it isn’t like he and Lauren are going to get married as soon as he proposes. They’ve got all the time in the world to figure everything out.

“I ― I think it’s best if I go,” Niall stutters; his bottom lip is wobbling, and Harry brings his thumb up to press down on the plump flesh, to stop its nervous movement because it’s making him itchy, making him feel like there’s ants crawling all over his body. “I need to go.”

“Why?”

Niall takes a deep breath, wets his lips, and the movement of his tongue rubs along the pad of Harry’s thumb, and he’s shaking, shuddering and quaking and gyrating deep inside. “I don’t want to be in a place where I’m uncomfortable anymore,” Niall replies, and Harry shakes his head hard ― no, no, no, no. “And I think it’ll be good for me to not have to rely on you for everything. I think I deserve to have the independence of being an adult. I don’t want to stay somewhere I know I’m going to be smothered.”

“Do I smother you?” Harry is small, so tiny, and he feels little, babyish and cramped and fleeting compared to the heavy emotions in his heart. “Do I?”

“No.” Niall is strong. He is _strong_. “No, you don’t. But I can’t handle being around you when you’re with Lauren because she smothers you, and that smothers me.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“I’m sorry, Ni. I’m sorry.”

“Stop.” Niall sniffles, nuzzles his head till Harry’s hand is cupping his cheek, rubbing at the wet, gentle skin beneath Niall’s eye with calloused fingertips. “Stop apologizing ‘cause if you don’t quit, I’ll never be able to say what I need to, okay?”

“You’re leaving,” Harry guesses, and it really isn’t a guess, though, because it’s true. Niall is leaving. “You’re going to move into the flat Lauren and the guys got for you.”

Niall nods. “Yeah. I am. I’m gonna start moving tomorrow, if all goes well today.”

And that’s it. Harry’s fractured heart is shattered, is a stupid little thing that feels too much and hurts too much in the bottom of his stomach; he puts his face in Niall’s chest, rubs his nose along Niall’s sharp clavicle, and cries and cries and cries and cries ― till he’s a sobbing mess, till Niall is covered in tears and snot and the sorrows and broken promises of somebody who was supposed to be there for him always.

Harry knows if he would’ve just watched himself, would’ve kept his overactive mind in check, that Niall wouldn’t be leaving, that they wouldn’t be having this conversation, half-naked and between the sheets of the very bed they’ve laughed and smiled and hugged and rejoiced on so many times before. Liam was right ― Harry was always the first person  Niall ran to.

Shannon was right, too. Shannon knew what he was talking about when he was introducing the rings because some of the best moments are made in bed, are made between the sheets, and Harry’s afraid that his and Niall’s train of memories are going to come to a screeching halt after Niall leaves ― leaves their home, leaves their life, leaves Harry’s heart a cracked mess on the floor where it’s getting stomped all over and left to rot.

 


	14. fourteen

“Are you excited?”

Startled out of his thoughts, Niall looks over his shoulder and sees Zayn standing behind him with a big grin and an even bigger box of clothes. Niall never knew he had so many pairs of jeans before he had to pack them all up; he’s kind of regretting the hoarding habit he’s inherited from his mother now that he had to pack up and move everything.

“Yeah, I am,” Niall replies with a smile ― and it’s real; it’s a _real_ smile ― and grabs the box out of Zayn’s hands, placing it on the bare mattress in the middle of the master bedroom. It’s spacious and fully furnished: there’s an en suite to the left and a large, walk-in closet on the right; a large bed is sat in the middle and on either side is twin nightstands that are home to matching lamps, and there’s a wardrobe and chest of drawers and a desk, too, all spread about. He’s got everything he’ll need. “I am really, really excited.”

And he is. He’s really happy about owning a place now, about not having to watch and hurt and pine and suffer any more than he has to. He has his own place, his own flat, and he’s starting fresh ― Harry is still with Lauren, yes, and that won’t change for a while, if at all, and Niall needs to learn to live with it, needs to live with it so he can learn.

Hence jumping at the opportunity for a new place to live. He and Louis ― and Kamryn and Lauren, too, since they were both very influential in the decision ― talked it all out over the last few days, and Niall never had a doubt in his mind that this is what he wants, that his is what he needs.

Lauren’s been a lot of help. She’s been magnificent and wonderful, and yes, he’s still a bit cross with her ― as he probably will be for the rest of the time her and Harry are dating, if they ever stop ― but he isn’t mad at her about purchasing a flat for him, isn’t upset that she nosed about in his business and done something she shouldn’t have without consulting Niall first.

Because he needs this. He _does_. He just didn’t realize how much till he was given the opportunity to have it.

“I’m glad you’re glad, then.” Zayn puts his arm around Niall’s shoulders and pulls him close; Zayn smells like the way autumn feels on bare arms, and Niall has definitely missed his friend. “This is a really nice place Lauren’s picked out.”

“Yeah? I think so, too.”

Zayn doesn’t know about what happened. Louis knows ― Louis knows a whole lot more than should be allowed, actually, but Niall’s not necessarily complaining because he had to tell somebody before he exploded ― and Liam does, too, but Niall made the executive decision to keep Zayn out of the unneeded drama. Zayn doesn’t need something else to weight on his mind while he’s working to finish up a book for his sister before the end of the year; in fact, Lauren isn’t even aware of the intense situation she’s been absently skirting around for the last four days, either.

It’s nobody’s business, really, and Niall’s a fucking pro at hiding things.

“You going to be okay alone?” Zayn asks, and it’s a quiet question, spoken low and kindly, but it’s one that probably needed to be voiced.

Niall burns with gratitude, flushes with embarrassment, because it’s been so, so long since somebody’s complete attention was focused solely on him. Harry’s been stuck on  Lauren since the family reunion, and Zayn was already making plans to leave before the event; not long after they returned to London, Louis and Kamryn partied and created a little baby, and Liam decided to move out so he could focus better on the strenuous work at his father’s company. Niall’s not been the apple of anyone’s eye for a long, long time, and when he is, it’s hard to know how to act.

“Yeah.” He nods, and he’s being honest. He’s never been alone, per se, but he knows he needs to be ― because staying with Harry without being able to be _with_ him is slowly taking over Niall’s life, and it isn’t healthy to live for somebody who wouldn’t live for you. “I think I’ll be okay. I mean, it’ll be weird, of course, but ― but I think it’ll be a good weird.” He smiles and shrugs, and Zayn’s brown eyes are light and full of sunshine as they crinkle at Niall’s nervous eagerness. “I think I’ll be just fine.”

There’s a knock behind the two, and Niall turns as Zayn drops his arm to see that Liam is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a brow raised. “Everything’s inside now,” he announces, and Niall’s heart begins to pound because this is it ― all of his belongings are in the flat now, and he’s on his own, and _this is it_. He is actually on his own. “And I have to go back to the office before my lunch break is up, Ni.”

Niall nods and walks forward, looping his arms around Liam’s neck in a tight, tight hug that conveys a lot more than he’s able to say. “Thank you so much, Liam,” Niall whispers, squeezing Liam tight; Liam’s hands are rubbing on Niall’s back comfortingly, as if he knows everything Niall doesn’t. “I really, really appreciate it.”

“I know. I know you do, Ni.” Liam puts a hard kiss to the side of Niall’s head before he pulls back, and the proud, happy smile on his face makes Niall feel as if he can move mountains. “I’m glad you have your own place now.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Liam moves back out into the wide corridor, wriggling his fingers in a goodbye. “I may stop by tomorrow for some takeout, yeah? Gotta break this place in.”

Niall nods, and in his mind he thinks that’s a really, really good idea. “Yeah. Fine by me.”

Liam’s gone then, walking down the hallway and into the light at the end, and Niall can faintly hear Louis and Harry bid Liam goodbye as he leaves, and it’s kind of weird that all five of them are together again, are helping Niall move out of the only place he ever wanted to be.

At least it isn’t funeral, though. At least they’re all able to come back together without death having to bring them to one another again.

Niall follows Liam’s footsteps down the corridor, bypassing the door that leads to the guest room; Zayn follows behind, and the two of them walk into the living area, where there’s a matching sofa and two loveseats spread out around a large coffee table that’s facing a sick entertainment area. Behind the sofa is a long bar that separates the kitchen, and it’s fully decked with whatever he may need while he’s staying.

There’s boxes littered all about, strewn on chairs and tables and the hardwood floor; the windows are opened to let out the stale air and there’s a bit of trash accumulating in the corner where they tossed their mess from lunch earlier. Louis was able to wire the television up in less than ten minutes, and James Bay is softly floating out of the speakers that’s hanging on the charcoal-colored walls of the living space, giving everything a weird sort of decent, tidy feel.

He likes his new home. He really, _really_ likes it.

“That’s all of it then?” Niall asks, tearing Louis and Harry’s attention away from a thick packet of instructions they’ve been arguing over for an hour now; their eyes lock on Niall, but Niall doesn’t meet Harry’s, can’t meet Harry’s gaze after last night.

Nothing happened, really. Nothing happened, but everything changed in a deep, confusing way. All they did was sleep, and talk, and sleep and eat and talk and sleep some more; they covered all sorts of topics, controversial and religious and national and abroad, and it’s left the nastiest taste in the back of Niall’s throat because he knows the only reason Harry was trying to make things right is because he can’t stand to be alone.

Yeah, that’s right. It isn’t that Niall can’t be alone ― it’s that Harry doesn’t want to be alone. The tables have turned, and Niall’s moving forward but Harry’s only falling behind.

“Yeah.” Louis nods, and his smile is big and bright, and he kind of looks like the way independence feels. “Yeah, everything’s brought up and ready to go.”

Harry nods, too, and gulps; Niall can see out of the corner of his eye that Harry is refusing to meet Niall’s gaze, too, and it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, shouldn’t tear at his heart and rip out his soul.

But it does. It does because Niall is falling in love with Harry, and Harry has no idea.

“That’s good then.” Niall smiles, and it’s still real, yes, but it’s lost a lot of its color, and that realization forces Niall to walk over to the loveseat and fall to sit on his bum before his knees give out and he’s begging Harry to stay the first night with him. “That’s really great.”

But he won’t. Fall to his knees and plead with Harry to stay with him, that is. He doesn’t want Harry to stay, really, and even if he did, he wouldn’t ask. He’s better than that ― he’s better than having to nag at somebody to like him.

Zayn’s phone goes off, interrupting the tense, thick silence, and he pulls it out of his pocket to read the text message; he groans and gives a look to Louis, shoving the device back into his jeans. “Lou, I gotta go,” he announces, and Niall’s shoulders slump. “Mum called, and she wants me to take Safee and Waliyha out so Doniya and her can have some time alone with one another. You want a ride back to your place?”

“Sure.” Louis grabs Harry’s neck in a half-hearted, one-armed hug, pressing a hard kiss to Harry’s forehead, and then pulls away, moving forward; he cups Niall’s cheeks in his hands, and their eyes meet, and it’s a sparkling amalgamation of fireworks, really, because Louis is a lifesaver. “If you need me, I’m only a call and a few streets away, yeah?”

Niall nods and smiles, and his eyes are burning and he feels like a wimp for tearing up at a time like this ― he didn’t even cry when he waved goodbye to his mum and dad and brother at the airport years ago, but he’s ready to bawl and sob for days now that he’s on his own.

“I know, Lou,” Niall replies. “I know. I’ll be fine.”

Louis sighs. “Fine isn’t good enough,” he whines in a high-pitched, quiet voice, bending forehead and planting a warm, gentle kiss on Niall’s forehead; the touch makes Niall’s eyes shut and his heart swell, and he’s so, so happy he has Louis in his life. He isn’t sure what would’ve happened had Louis not answered the phone, definitely doesn’t want to think about it, either.

“Thank you, Lou.” _So, so much_.

“You’re welcome, Niall.”

Zayn hugs Niall, too, and they share a few words of goodbye, and Zayn reminds Niall that he can call anytime, no matter what, and Niall nods because he knows, because he’s always known that Zayn will be there for him. He doesn’t need to be reminded of something that’s always been a constant since he was eighteen.

They’re gone afterward, and Niall and Harry are left alone in the dense living room, and Niall feels like he’s being suffocated by an oppressive weight, by a heaviness that is so great in size that nobody’s able to lift it off.

Except for Harry. Harry can do _anything_.

“Do you like it?” Harry asks after a moment, and his voice is strained and his words are tight, and everything kind of sucks, really, because he and Harry aren’t meant to be cross with one another.

Niall nods, thins his lips and hums beneath his breath. “Yeah, I do,” he answers for what feels like the eightieth time. “I… I think it fits me, and I think it’s _me,_ too, ya know.” He smiles ― or tries to, but it’s more of a screwed up, sour twitch of his lips. “This is something I think I would’ve picked out if I was looking.”

“But you weren’t.” Harry’s standing, and it’s very intimidating; Harry is dressed in dark colors with his long hair down around his shoulders, and he looks like the person Johnny Cash always sings about, like the actual man in black. “You weren’t looking, were you?”

“No.” Niall shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t.” He swallows, and his eyes are wet and he wipes to clear the liquid from his vision because he can’t see Harry clearly, and he kind of wants to imprint Harry in the back of his mind so he’ll never, ever forget this moment no matter what happens after this. “Harry ―”

“I didn’t know,” Harry cuts Niall off, rushing forward, and he’s on the leather seat next to Niall, and his hands are flashing out, grabbing at Niall’s shoulders and caressing Niall’s cheeks and rubbing at the dry skin of Niall’s neck. “I swear to you, Niall, I didn’t know about this.”

Niall kind of finds that hard to believe, but he doesn’t voice that aloud.

“If ― if I did, I wouldn’t have let Lauren go through with it,” Harry continues, and he’s pleading, and it’s kind of ironic that Niall refused to beg when that’s all Harry’s been doing lately. “If I’d have known, I promise I wouldn’t have let any of them do this. I promise. You believe me, don’t you?”

This Niall believes ― believes because Harry doesn’t want to be alone, and the fierce, desperate look behind the gray-blue-green of his eyes is only confirming Niall’s suspicions.

“I know, Harry. I believe you.”

“Do you, Niall?” And Harry is up in Niall’s face, and their lips are close ― _so close_ ― and Niall can feel Harry’s breath on his mouth as he breathes, as he inhales and exhales. “Do you really believe me?”

Niall’s torn between wanting to kiss Harry or reply, wanting to smack their lips together or tell Harry what he’s been needing to for six months. Niall’s heart is pumping and his blood is rushing and Harry is close, and his lips are reddish-pink and wet and plump, and Niall wants to kiss Harry, wants to put himself out there because he’s tired of holding himself back.

“I do. I do believe you, Harry.”

And he does. Niall believes every word that’s coming out of Harry’s mouth because Harry doesn’t lie, because he can’t lie, because Harry can be the root of all the evil in the world and Niall will always, always see the best in him.

That isn’t a good thing.

“I’m sorry.” Harry drops his forehead against Niall’s, and his lips are brushing Niall’s cheek, are making Niall hot, hot, _hot_ ― so fucking hot he feels like he’s on fire, feels like he’s burning up from the inside. “I’m so sorry, Niall.”

Harry’s sorry. Harry’s so sorry that he’s honestly hurting, that it’s literally making him sick.

“Stop,” Niall voices, jerks away, and he’s begging ― he’s begging, and he’s cold, and he needs Harry to leave. “Just stop. Please stop saying you’re sorry.”

It’s breaking Niall’s heart. He can’t take much more of it.

Harry nods. “Okay.” He blinks, and his eyes are red, and he’s a broken mess of nasty emotions, too, isn’t he? They both are, and it’s funny because it’s for completely different reasons.

“Harry, I ― you need go to, okay?” Niall shuts his eyes, puts his face in his hands and takes a hard, ragged breath. “Can you go? Please?”

Harry’s face is white and his eyes are wide and his lips are wet and parted, and he looks so sad, so shattered and slaughtered and completely defeated in the worst, worst way. And it hurts Niall, deep down where nobody knows to look, to see Harry so pained, so anguished.

But Niall’s felt this way for six months, felt like he was being beaten and tortured and bloodied for days, and it isn’t fair that he’s the only one that has to suffer. It’s about time Harry’s paid his dues, too.

“I’ll go.” Harry nods, and he’s up, jerking his reaching hands from Niall’s body and tugging them through his hair, and it was a mess before, of course, but now it’s frizzy and wild, and he looks insane. “I’ll go, yeah. But Niall? I love you.”

Niall just nods ― Niall just nods because he doesn’t want to ruin what Harry’s working so, so hard to fix.

“And… and if you need me ― if you need anything, call me,” Harry adds over his shoulder in a rush, in a swift hurry as he walks toward the door, leaving Niall to lose himself on the loveseat. “Just call me, okay?”

Niall nods again. “Okay.” But he won’t. He’s not going to call Harry because Harry won’t come. 

“Okay.” Harry sniffles, wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. “Bye, baby.”

And he’s gone. Harry’s gone, and he’s taken Niall’s heart with him, and Niall doesn’t want it back. Ever.

So he falls apart. He lays back on the couch, covers his face with his hands, and lets himself sink low, lets his mind overtake his soul, lets his stomach clench and his legs ache and his arms cramp ― he lets himself lose it because he’s already lost Harry, and that’s all that has ever mattered to him, really. He loves his family, loves his friends, loves his life, loves all the little and big things out there ― but he’s _in love_ with Harry, and there’s such a large difference between the two that it’s left a crater in his heart.

There’s a knock at the door that jerks Niall from his misery, and he stands from the seat, wipes at his eyes and walks toward the exit in a mix of confusion and agitation; he grabs the knob and turns it, rubbing at his nose as he swings it wide.

“Hello, neighbor,” the person on the other side is immediate, and their voice is a little bit lighter than Niall’s. “I’m right across the hall, by the way ― room three-fourteen ― and I thought I should come over and warn you before Mrs. Quinn tried get you take these horrendous brownies she makes for all the new tenants. They’re quite awful. Joe from the top floor was even out of work for a week because of food poisoning.”

Niall laughs and blinks the bleariness from his eyes; there’s a girl standing in front of him, and she’s black with wild hair and a light yellow t-shirt and ripped, rainbow-patched jeans, and Niall knows her, has seen her around before because it’s quite hard to forget a face like hers.

“Grace?” he guesses, kind of uneasy.

She nods and smiles, and Niall’s dark mood begins to turn a little bit pink. “Bingo.”

 

 


	15. fifteen

Niall wraps his hands around the large, warm mug of steaming hot cocoa Grace offered to make him and brings the liquid to his lips; it burns as he takes a sip, and he makes a noise as it slides down his throat, setting the drink down and fanning at his mouth because he didn’t know it was going to scorch his tongue so horribly.

Grace is leaning against the counter opposite of Niall, who’s sat at the bar that’s separating the living space and kitchen, and she’s sipping at a glass of cold tea ― cold, with ice, because her mother is from Oklahoma, she said, and she kind of likes it better than hot, really; she says tea in Oklahoma is nothing like tea in London, and Niall has a rather strong feeling she’s right ― as she gives Niall an inquisitive look over the brim of her cup.

“So,” she begins, bringing the cup down and setting it on the counter; she folds her arms over her chest, and Niall notices that she’s got something written in another language down her forearm. Greek, maybe, or Hebrew ― Niall’s not the best at guessing and remembering languages, ya know, barely learned how to write and read English in school. “Your friends bought you this flat without your knowledge?”

Niall shrugs, picks at a chip in his thumbnail he must’ve got from carrying in boxes earlier. “I ― they didn’t do _that_ , really,” he replies, tries to wrap his mind around what he wants to say and what he feels at the moment because he’s a mess of emotions and it’s hard to think clearly. “We’re all out of university, and there’s no reason to live with one another now that we’re full-grown adults with jobs and careers.”

Grace makes a face. “Who bought this flat, Niall?”

“Lauren.”

Niall thinks so, at least. Louis told him that he, Lauren, Liam, Zayn, and Kamryn all decided ― collectively, as a group ― to push him to get started in the rest of his life, to show him that he can be okay on his own. It’s no secret that he’s struggling, that he’s behind in the race to the finish line, and he appreciates their efforts to make him happy, to make him feel better about himself, but he kind of wishes they would have consulted him beforehand because he doesn’t like the thick feeling this situation is creating in the pit of his stomach.

And Harry. Harry didn’t even know about Niall’s gift, either. Both of them were fucked over in the grand scheme of things, really, and Niall’s kind of afraid that he and Harry will never get back to how they used to be.

He also isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing, either.

But he isn’t mad. Niall can’t be mad; he knows they only did it because they felt it was best for him, felt it was what he needed. And it was ― it _is_.

Niall just wishes it would have come about in a different way.

“How do you feel about that?” Grace asks, and she’s kind of butting into Niall’s personal business, but she’s nice and lovely, and her hot cocoa is loads better than Harry’s ― he gets distracted a lot, messes up some of the simplest tasks at times; Niall’s never raised awareness to the fact because he knows Harry’s aware of his short attention span ― and he doesn’t mind talking to her. After all, she’s asking the questions, and Niall’s far enough away from Harry and Lauren that spewing a few secrets of his here and there shouldn’t cause any damage.

He hopes not, at least. And if it does ― well, if it does, he’ll deal with it. He deals with everything else.

“I don’t know how to feel about it yet, honestly.” Niall shrugs, and he’s telling the truth, letting Lauren look deep into his heart, into his mind, into the hidden places of his soul he’s tried to keep dormant for days. “I don’t know how to feel ‘cause I’ve never had to feel anything like this before.”

“That’s normal.”

“Is it?” Niall gives Grace a look ― _the look_. He isn’t sure what message he’s trying to convey, but he hopes she’s understanding his mess of thoughts. “Is it really normal for people to control my life for me?”

Grace sighs, uncrosses her arms and grabs her cup, taking a long, loud drink that fills the tentative silence of calculation. “No, it’s not. People have no right to try to live somebody else’s life, but it’s something that happens because it’s hard to say no for some, I guess. And I think that’s your problem ― you can’t say no.”

No, that’s not Niall’s problem. Niall’s problem is that he loves Harry a little bit too much to be smart. Grace is wrong; Niall knows what’s wrong with him, and Grace is wrong.

He’s not going to tell her that, though. He’ll talk with her about Harry, but he won’t talk to her about his strong, scary feelings for Harry. He doesn’t want anyone to know how too far gone he is.

“But I think the people who are controlled turn out to be the strongest,” she continues, and Niall’s brow is crinkling as she explains her thesis because she’s contradicting herself in the cleverest of ways. “I think those kinds of people are able to learn from their mistakes and others mistakes, too. They’re smarter than most, and a hell of a lot stronger.”

Maybe she’s right; maybe Niall will be strong one of these days. But one of these days isn’t today, and he doesn’t see it being any time soon, either. He can only hope, and then hoping won’t get him as far as he wants to be.

“You don’t get it, Grace,” Niall says, and he isn’t mad at her, isn’t cross with her, isn’t upset that she’s trying to diagnose him without knowing him. He’s just trying to tell her the truth. “Lauren is ― you just don’t get it.”

Grace sighs. “And who is Lauren again?”

Niall smothers a laugh because this is the third time he’s had to remind Grace who everybody is, and he feels a lot lighter than he did a moment ago. “She’s my cousin.” She’s his cousin, and she’s three years older, twenty-five and very successful, and she’s always ― _always_ ― been ahead of him in everything.

The only thing he can top her at is drinking, and even then he’s a slobbering, falling mess.  

“Ah.” Grace nods. “And she’s dating Harry.”

Niall nods, too. “Yeah,” he replies, gulps around the nasty lump in his throat and grabs at the cocoa, taking several drinks; he doesn’t care that it’s hot, doesn’t care that it’s stinging his mouth because physical pain is better than mental, it seems, and he just wants everything to stop. He’s away from Harry, away from Lauren, and he wants it all to stop, stop, _stop_. “Yeah, she’s dating Harry.”

She’s dating Harry, and she’s kind of taking over Niall’s life, but that’s okay, apparently, because he can’t take care of himself, because he doesn’t know how to live his own life.

That’s what it feels like, anyway, since a flat was bought for him. He feels like he’s a child, like his friends are his parents, and he hates it ― he hates it and hates it and hates it, but he can’t say anything about it.

Because he’s nice. Because he bites his tongue ― because he didn’t have enough courage to admit his feelings for Harry before Lauren caught him up in her web like a black widow. He doesn’t have any bravery, any intrepidity, any raw backbone to take what he wants and tell those who are trying to steal it away to fuck off. .

But he’s trying. He’s trying really, really hard.

And that’s all he can do.

“And Harry is…”

Niall sighs. “My friend.” His best friend, the single person in the world who’s not his blood he reckons he would do absolutely anything for; infatuation is a wild thing, but love is broadly crazier, and there are no limits to the feeling because it’s too indescribable, too incomprehensible, to understand. “Harry’s my friend.” 

“Harry’s the man who was with you at my bar the other night,” Grace infers, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth and worrying the flesh. “You know, Niall, it’s okay to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back.”

“What ―”

“It’s okay as long as they’re worth you loving them, as long as they take good care of your heart and don’t let it crack.”

Niall scratches his head, but he can’t help the bottomless feeling he has in the pit of his stomach; he’s empty and sad and worried, and the solid ground he was on before is slowly cracking, slowly fracturing, and soon it’s going to give way to a gaping hole that’ll only suck him up and rip him completely apart.

And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it would be good if he was gone; maybe all the drama and trouble he causes will diminish, will dwindle away till there’s nothing left of him at all, till all his friends can continue to grow and flourish and live their lives the way they want to.

Yeah. Yeah, maybe he’ll leave, maybe he’ll tuck tail and run back home to Ireland in a few months or so, after he’s saved up enough money; after all, he doesn’t have to pay anything on the flat for five months. Yeah, sounds like a plan.

“Where’d you learn that?” Niall asks, scratching at the ripped denim of his too-worn, well-washed, paint-splattered jeans. He and Zayn were goofing about a few years ago, having been hired to paint a little boy’s room, and instead of doing their job and drawing clouds, they covered everything in white and slung a rainbow of colors all over the ceiling and walls; the kid liked the new design, but his parents didn’t. “A movie?”

Grace shrugs. “A book, actually,” she replies with a smile, and Niall curls his lips up to hide the grin that’s threatening to break out across his face because of course she’s a literature freak ― just like Harry, just like Lauren. Niall rather prefers movies. “Now, finish that hot cocoa and get ready ‘cause I’m hungry and we’re going out.”

Niall’s eyes go wide, and he feels his neck prickle. “But I don’t have any ―”

“Relax, buttercup. I’m buying, and I’m choosing the place, too.”

-

“What the fuck is that?”

Grace throws her head back and laughs, guffaws loud and echoing, and the other people inside the restaurant give her and Niall weird, calculative looks; Niall’s face is red and his stomach is going mad as the smell of baked ravioli hits his nostrils and Grace can’t catch her breath because she’s giggling so hard, and Niall doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care because Grace is so fucking cool, so chill and relaxed and high-strung, too, so out of it and tuned into everything at the same time; Niall’s not stopped laughing since they exited the elevator at their building, since she mouthed off to a cab driver who purposefully left him and her on the curb after tossing out a pedestrian ― quite literally. He hasn’t felt so free, so intrepid, in so long he almost forgot how electric everything is when he’s clear of it all.

Grace is just ― the way she makes Niall feel, the way she makes him think and see and hear and taste, is kind of extraordinary. And though she doesn’t hold a candle to the effect Harry has Niall, she’s still managing to make Niall smile and smile and _smile_ till his cheeks are hurting and his eyes are burning and he isn’t sad about the best friend who’s leaving him behind.

Yeah, she kind of takes all of that away.

“It’s ― I think it’s shrimp scampi,” Grace answers ― as if Niall knows what that is ― and she’s still laughing, still chortling, still finding Niall’s cluelessness absolutely hilarious.

And it probably is, kind of. After all, he’s a twenty-two year old young man who has never heard of shrimp scampi let alone seen it in action ― because it moves, because it likes to ‘scampi ― and he should feel upset over that, should be embarrassed that he’s so behind, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel bad, and he’s glad he’s allowed to share this new experience with Grace even though she has no mind how monumental this is for him, how much it means to him deep, deep down.

“What the fuck is shrimp scampi?”

Grace shrugs, bites at her bottom lip to keep in another round of vociferous laughter. “It’s shrimp… it’s shrimp, um, scampi-ing.” She giggles, slapping her hand over her mouth to keep in her chuckles. Her humor is as dry as Harry’s ― oh God, her and Harry have the same humor.

Damn, but she’s amazing ― almost more amazing than Harry. The clear life of any party, that’s for sure; she’s already been a great, wondrous highlight to Niall’s life. He _adores_ her.

“You are a mess,” Niall muses, grabbing at his silverware and ripping off the cute little black ribbon that’s holding it all together; it’s soft between his fingers, reminds him of the silkiness of Harry’s sheets, and he throws the fabric down as if it’s suddenly morphed into a snake. He doesn’t want the image of Harry on his mind to ruin this peaceful moment he’s found with somebody a whole lot more devoted and loyal than Harry. “You are a total mess, Gracie.”

She slants her head to the side; her long hair is braided, and there’s little flyaway curls that tangle around her cheeks, and she looks so cute in the lighting with her sunshine yellow shirt. “D’you call me Gracie?” she asks, and her voice is deep and sinewy, nostalgic and thoughtful in a way that makes Niall forget they’re only two little specks of dust on the book that’s called the universe.

He flushes red ― sixty or seventy different shades, ranging from pink pansy to fire engine to blush to crimson. “Yeah,” he admits, ducks his head because he’s sorry, _so_ _sorry_ , if he’s triggered something that he shouldn’t have. His fingers are tingling and the silverware in his hands is shaking, and he’s so sorry. “Yeah, I did. Sorry ― _sorry_ , Grace.”

Grace shakes her head and rolls her eyes and smiles. “S’okay, Ni. My granddaddy in Oklahoma calls me that, and I’ve not seen him in a year, is all. It just kind of knocked me off guard, ya know? I miss him loads more than I thought I would.”

Niall nods, and the heavy alleviation he feels is extraordinary in so, so many ways. “Yeah, I get that.” He smiles, grips the black ribbon he threw earlier tight in his fingers because he needs a little bit of Harry’s fearlessness at the moment, and if an odd piece of fabric with the same texture as Harry’s sheet is all he has, that’s okay. It’s fine ― it’s fine because he isn’t sure if he can take Harry as a whole again. “I’ve not been able to go home and see my mum and dad for more than a week for two years.” He couldn’t afford it ― still can’t afford it, really, and the only reason he was able to attend the family reunions is because of the air mileage his mum as garnered over time. But soon. Hopefully; a trip to Ireland is due, and he wants to stay for longer than a measly week. “I get where you’re coming from.”

“Tell me about your family.” Grace grabs her ribbon-tied utensils and undoes the bow. “Please.”

And Niall does. Niall tells her about his mum and dad, about their happy marriage and civil divorce; he tells her about his annoying ― and sometimes okay, too, because Greg’s not always been a little shit ― brother and his wife and the little bitty nephew he’s absolutely in love with; he tells her about the friends and family he’s not seen in years, about the good times and the bad times they’ve all had. He tells her about the time he drove a motorcycle through the hallway at school, about how he and his cousin carried a bucket of cow dung to church and dunked the preacher’s son in wet shit because of the awful way he hurt Lauren’s heart after Flora passed.

He tells Grace about Lauren, about how they’ve always been close, always been good friends; he tells her about the family reunion, about the fun times, the memorable times, the cringe-worthy times, the unforgettable times. He tells her everything she wants to know, and she does, too.

Niall learns that her mother is black while her father is white, half Native American, learns that her parents never got married because her father was a bodyguard of a rock band ― Nakedd, she called it, ‘with two d’s ‘cause double dicks’, too, because it was two broke guys just trying to be rockstars ― about how they still talk on and off, still go on dates. Grace says she’s ready for her dad to propose since the band is slowing down, and her mother wants another baby, anyway.

She talks about her summers in Oklahoma, dodging rattlesnakes and nasty mosquitos ― ‘spawns of the fuckin’ devil, Ni, I swear to ya’ ― and random floods and pretty, pretty meadows full of flowers and fire and butterflies. She talks about it all, about how she inherited the pub at nineteen because of a poker match gone wrong, about how she saved the business from plunging down the drain, about how it’s her most favorite place to be aside from the country in Oklahoma.

And Niall listens. Niall listens because it feels good to escape for a little while.

But he’s brought back to her words from earlier, about how it’s okay to love somebody who doesn’t love you back as long as they’re worth it, and Niall can’t help himself as he wonders if Harry’s worth it, as he wonders if Harry’s worth the pain and heartache and suffering.

Harry’s made of every good thing in the world; Niall doesn’t want to let him go. _Ever_. But if he’s not worth it, if he’s not worthy, there’s no point in holding on.

The difficult part is not knowing, per se ― what’s hard is believing, what’s hard is picking apart what’s good and what’s bad. That’s the rough part.

“Let’s take a quick picture, yeah?”

Niall chuckles. “Why?” he asks, drawing the word out far longer than is necessary. His plate his finished and Grace’s is, too, and they’re just talking, just bullshitting, and all is good in the world.

“’Cause I like to chronicle my life, Ni,” she replies, and she’s already getting her phone out, already standing from her chair and moving over, and Niall’s pushing away from the table and pulling her to sit wobbly on his lap, and they’re laughing and smiling and goofing off, and the picture is perfect and blurry and messy, and he asks her to send it to him, and Niall feels perfect, and everything is kind of perfect.

For the time being, that is. Perfection isn’t real, after all.

 


	16. sixteen

Harry is on fire.

Harry’s on fire, and it’s the bad kind of flame that makes his stomach hurt, that makes his mind burn, that makes his soul scream from the licking ignitions that are glaring holes into his skin, into his body, into his solid understanding of himself.

Harry’s on fire, and Niall’s the water he needs to put himself out, but Niall isn’t here and Harry is lost like the boys in the tale of Peter Pan, lost like the dreams of people who have left the world too early. Niall’s gone, and Harry is lost.

It feels weird, Harry thinks, coming back home to an empty house and an even more bare bedroom that has tacks on the wall where posters of outdated bands and reminders of tests and schedules were hanging. The house is a mess ― boxes are strewn everywhere, tape hanging from the oddest of places, and there’s a few mismatched pairs of socks wrapped in balls in the strangest areas; there’s a scratch on the corridor wall that runs about the length of Harry’s height and the sofas have been shoved out of the way, and there’s a little bit of glass leftover on the floor from the lamp Louis broke in a fit of rage because ‘that fuckin’ table wasn’t there last time, lads!’.

Really, it was because he and Liam were goofing off and tossing coins found in the cushions of the couch at Zayn, who then retaliated and tossed a throw pillow at Louis, causing him to stumble backward and crash into the table.

Harry’s not even mad, though. It’s been so, so long since the five of them were together, and Harry didn’t care about the strained tension between him and Niall, didn’t care about the pitying looks Louis was throwing away, didn’t care about Liam’s hormonal choice in music, didn’t care about Zayn raiding the refrigerator and dirtying up every dish to make grilled cheese ― didn’t care because it felt nice, felt calming, felt soothing and needed and relaxing and _right_ to all be together again.

It’s only fitting that they all come together when the last of them are to separate, isn’t it?

The house is empty, yes, but it’s also cold and naked, bare in a raw sense that Harry can practically smell the history leaking out of the walls, can feel the memories as they sing and dance in the kitchen on New Year’s Eve, as they fill hands with cream to shove in Louis’s face, as they paint and draw and ink all across paper, as they drink and laugh and smile and cry and kiss and live for one another, for each other. Harry can feel it all, can remember everything, can remember the good and bad and the nasty and the funny and the stupid and the important, and it’s weighing on him, choking off his oxygen supply because he knows it’s the end of late nights, of early mornings, of occupied bathrooms and fights over the remote and hugs during bad times and drinks after a long day and silence when it’s needed. It’s the end of it all.

It’s making his heart hurt, making it bleed and bleed and bleed.  

He wants Niall back already. He wants Niall here, with him, and he doesn’t want anybody else ― he doesn’t want the people at his work, he doesn’t want those he still talks with from university, he doesn’t want his overbearing mum and tolerable sister and wacky stepfather and classic dad, he doesn’t want his too-crazy and too-lovable friends, he doesn’t want his perfect girlfriend. He just wants Niall, Niall, _Niall_.

But Niall doesn’t want him. Niall _left_ ― of course he doesn’t want Harry. Harry’s worthless; why would anybody want his problems and thoughts and jumbled mind? He’s surprised Lauren’s stuck around as long as she has.

Maybe that’s why he’s giving her a ring, maybe that’s why he’s promising her that he will stay for as long as she wants him to ― she’s not left him, and he doesn’t want to leave her, either. Equality and loyalty at its finest, it seems.

But it’s not. Not really.

The taste in the back of Harry’s throat is like acid, is like bleach taking the stains out of clothes because he can feel it leaking his heart out, can feel it tearing his soul to pieces. He didn’t know about the gift, didn’t know about Lauren’s plan to find Niall a flat, to push Niall out into the world of independence so he can begin to live his life on his own. Harry didn’t know ― Harry had no mind of the idea, had no clue as to what was going on behind closed doors, and he’s _mad_. He is angry.

But he’s not angry at Lauren, not angry at Niall or Louis or Liam or Zayn or Kamryn, either. He can’t be mad at Lauren because she did this for Niall out of the goodness of her heart ― she found Niall a new home, found Niall a new place to start fresh, because she wants to see him succeed, because she wants to see him do as well in life as she and all their friends are doing. And he isn’t mad at Louis or Zayn or Liam, either, because they just want the best for Niall, really, and he can’t fault them for that. Niall is the most precious human on earth ― he deserves all the love.

Harry wants the best for Niall, too. _He does_. And the best for Niall is when he’s with Harry ― because they’re invincible together, because the history they’ve made only prompts Harry want to make more and more and more.

There’s nobody out there in the world like Niall. He’s too beautiful, in every way, to ever be described using ignorant, juvenile words. The fact is, really, that Harry would much rather enjoy the feeling than try to describe the feeling, try to put meaning as to why he’s being blessed, and Niall’s the single person in the world who taught Harry that life is a shit thing, yes, but it’s something that can be good if _you’re_ good.

No, Harry’s not mad at anybody but himself. This is his fault, anyway. Inadvertently, of course, but his fault nonetheless.

At least he’s owning up to it, too. At least he’s doing the mature thing and admitting that he fucked up.

Harry drops to the leather sofa, doesn’t bother to push it back into its designated place because he has no care in the world; his mind is burning, and his heart is burning, and his fingers are burning, and all he can think is Niall, Niall, Niall.

He wonders if Niall’s okay, wonders if Niall’s still crying, wonders if Niall’s eating or sleeping or watching television or lying in bed and just thinking everything over for a moment. He wonders if Niall misses him, wonders if Niall has even the smallest bit of regrets about leaving, wonders if anything drastically large has changed between the two of them to put a rift in their friendship.

Harry will never forget the desperate, pleading look in Niall’s eyes when they were forehead to forehead, skin to skin, heart to heart. He’ll never forget it because they were almost because, because they were almost touching in the sweetest way, and he isn’t sure why he was pushing, why he was pressing Niall to do something. Anything.

He just doesn’t know.

He puts his head in his hands and snorts; his palms are cold and sweaty, chilly and damp, and he shivers as at the realizations that are coursing through his mind.

Niall is gone. Niall is _gone_ , and he’s probably never coming back.

And it’s kind of ― a lot ― Harry’s fault. Harry’s been the worst friend, stood Niall up and left him for nothing, made promises and then broken them the very next day, and it’s Harry’s fault that Niall’s gone, Harry’s fault that Niall feels less than the absolute gem that he is.

Oh my God. Harry sucks ― Harry sucks _royally_.

He just wants Niall back. That’s all. He only wants Niall back.

There’s a noise infiltrating the static air then, and Harry leans back, slants his head to see that the doorknob is wiggling; Harry’s heart has stilled, and he’s hoping against hope, praying to whatever deity that has the time to listen that it’s Niall, that it’s his best friend, that it’s the only person in the world he wants to see forever and ever and ever.

But it isn’t. Dreams are real, and life is a chase to reach that destination, but sometimes nothing comes true, sometimes nothing goes as it’s wanted to.

A moment later, Lauren is coming in, and she’s dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a white, ruffled blouse that’s beneath a black silk blazer with a pinned pink flower in the pocket. Her hair is up in a loose, messy bun, and her makeup has been wiped off, leaving her face kind of red and blotchy, and her jeans are tight in all the right places, around her thick thighs and creamy calves and marvelous hips, and her shirt is a little bit too loose around her breasts, showing off skin he would rather be hidden, and Harry’s hard ― Harry’s hard because he remembers Niall’s sinewy arms as box after box was lifted, remembers Niall’s sweaty temple and wet lip and red nose and bulging eyes and soft skin, and that’s how he imagines Niall looks when he’s fucking, when he’s getting fucked.

 _Fuck_.  

He’s hard, and Lauren’s here, and fucking away your problems is stupid, is probably one of the worst possible things he can do. But Niall isn’t here to put out his fire, and it’s not like he can fuck Niall, anyway. They’re best friends, not boyfriends.

“Hi,” Harry croaks, and his voice is hoarse and hard, and he sounds like he’s been crying but he hasn’t shed a tear since yesterday. He clears his throat and blinks as she kicks off her flats and wiggles her socked toes. “Hi, Lauren. How was work?”

“Shitty,” she replies. “As always, though.” She shrugs, gives Harry a careful smile as she eases out of her blazer, folding it over her arm and walking closer. “But it’s okay now. Everybody has a bad day. How was yours?”

Harry gulps, averts his eyes from the bust of the _fucking sheer_ blouse and grabs a pillow, settling it over his lap to hide his straining erection. He’s never been so hard before, never gotten so raging so quickly, and it sort of scares him how responsive he is to his frazzled mind.

The funny thing is that it happened when he was thinking of Niall, when he was wishing it was Niall walking through the door. How strange, but it’s something he doesn’t dwell on. Niall’s given him boners before, just as he knows he’s given Niall quite a few stiff ones, too; it’s something that happens, something that feels too normal to ever be questioned. So Harry let it slide, and he’s going to allow it to go this time, too.

What else is he going to do? Tell Lauren to leave, grab his keys, drive across town to Niall’s flat and fuck him till he’s raw, till they’re both whining and keening, till they’re both sobbing and kissing and touching and coming, till all they know is one another?

Nah. He can’t do that. That’s _wrong_.

However, fucking his problems away and using Lauren as a sobering device kind of is, too, but it’s a whole lot better than fucking his best friend, that’s for sure.

“My day was okay.” Mediocre, fucking horrible and full of wobbling lips and sweating eyes and shaking hands. _Awful_. “I ― we helped Niall move today.” He thins his lips, nods as if he’s reminding himself that yes, he and the others packed Niall up today and shipped him away. “Was a weird day.”

“I bet.” Lauren makes a sympathetic face and sits next to Harry, swinging her legs up and shoving her toes beneath Harry’s thigh to keep them warm. It’s something Niall does, too, but Harry can’t think about it when he’s hard, when he’s about to blow. “I’m really sorry for not telling you, by the way. I just ― I wanted it to be a surprise for the both of you.” She shrugs, and Harry nods, and he’s going to apologize in a moment, too, because a sorry is definitely due, but she’s the primary one in the wrong and it’s only right for her to be first. “I didn’t even know for sure if Niall was going to like the idea. I acted on impulse and did something stupid.”

Harry scoffs. “You did.” He meets her eyes, and they’re darker than Niall’s, deeper and more dangerous, and it scares Harry to the bone how much alike Lauren and Niall really are, look-wise. Personality-wise, though, they’re so far apart it is as if they aren’t even family. “You really did, babe.”

She sighs again. “I know, but I did it for a good reason, Harry.” And she did; Harry can’t argue with that, won’t argue with that. “But he took the opportunity to leave, Harry, and I think he’s going to be a lot happier there because he isn’t constantly reminded of the things that are bringing him down like he was here.”

And what are those things? Harry never really got a straight answer, never really figured out what was eating away at Niall’s joy.

“You’re probably right.” Harry tries to smile as he reaches his hand out, as he twirls his fingers around the frizzy little wisps beside her red cheeks. “It’s weird having him gone, though.”

“I know.” She leans into his touch, and his heart stutters in his chest because she’s so pretty, so simply beautiful. “It’s odd not seeing him sprawled out on the sofa next to you, honestly.”

Harry’s heart clenches instead of stuttering, and he swallows back a rush of anger. “I’m sorry, too, by the way. I shouldn’t have acted in the way I did. It’s just ―” He stops, takes a breath and moves his hand to cup her cheek, to rub at the skin beneath her eye. “Niall means a lot to me, Lauren. I’d give him anything, even if it broke me to do so.”

“I know.”

_No, you don’t._

But he doesn’t say that. There’s nothing good that’ll come out of it, anyway; only another argument, and he isn’t ready for that.

“I’m gonna miss him, s’all,” Harry says instead, licks his lips as he moves his fingers along Lauren’s cheek, as he rubs at her mouth and plays with the tender flesh. “And nothing is going to be the same with him gone. I’m already missing him. And I just want you and me to be okay, too.”

Lauren smiles, reaches her hand up and grips Harry’s wrist. “We are. We’ve never not been okay.”

Harry sighs ― Harry sighs and rushes forward, crashing his lips against Lauren’s, and it’s a wet kiss that makes Harry tighten, that makes him fill with all sorts of strain, and he’s on top of her, pushing her back and tearing at the buttons of her blouse and groping gently at the swell of her breasts, and she’s moaning, writhing beneath him and grabbing at every bit of flesh she can.

And it’s not Niall. _It’s not Niall._

“I’m going to fuck you so hard, baby girl.”

-

He does fuck her hard.

It’s over and over, too, on the sofa and floor, in the kitchen and against the wall, on his bed and sat at his desk as she rode him, as he used his hands to move her faster and harder and _faster and harder_ , and he’s drained and spent, and Lauren’s a mess, too, with kiss-bruises and swollen marks and red skin, and they’re resting, lying against one another and catching their breaths, and Lauren is going through her phone with shaky fingers, replying to emails, and Harry’s staring at the ceiling.

And Harry feels nasty, feels dirty in a way he’s never felt dirty before. He and Lauren have become one loads of times, have had sex and made love and fucked ― all in a day, too ― but he doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel as good as he thinks he should.

He doesn’t know why, either. The emptiness in his gut is one that he has never felt before.

“Harry, look at this.”

Harry tears his eyes off of the ceiling and turns to look at Lauren’s phone; on the screen is Instagram, of course, and it’s pulled to Niall’s page, and the newest post is of him and a woman who seems vaguely familiar, and she’s sat on his lap and he’s smiling, and they’re both flushed and red-faced and hugging as if they can’t get enough of one another, and the anger in Harry is boiling, toppling over and causing him to nearly steam as the heat meets the chilly air of the room.

“They’re awful cute together, don’t you think?”

No. _No_.

Lauren’s talking ― Lauren’s speaking, but he isn’t hearing any of it as he removes himself from between the sheets, as he grapples for his underwear and jeans, as he tugs his zip up and snatches a button down off of the floor, as he shoves his feet into a well-worn, scratched pair of boots and tears around the room.

Lauren’s talking, trying to ask him what’s wrong, but he isn’t listening; his vision is red and his hands are numb, and he needs to see Niall now, and he _isn’t_ _listening_.

“I’ll be back,” he announces, and that’s the end of it as he bounds through the house, as he trips over a box that he forgot to move on the way to the bedroom, as he grabs his keys and slams through the door and races across the street to his vehicle.

It doesn’t take long to reach Niall’s flat ― Harry’s speeding, anyway, and what would take forty-five minutes only takes twenty. He jumps from the car after barely shoving it in park, and the snow that falls on his bare arms ― he forgot to grab a jacket, though it’s not necessarily needed, what with his raging anger and all ― melts off as soon as it hits his skin.

He navigates through the illuminated, flower-based lobby, flashes a forced, polite smile at the clerk before entering the elevator and punching the button to Niall’s floor.

He’s tapping his feet, biting his nails; he’s whispering beneath his breath, rubbing his temples to calm himself down, to diminish the rush of agitation that’s claiming his heart, but it all goes down the drain as he exits the ride, as he reaches Niall’s door, as he finds that it isn’t locked, as he shoves it wide and steps inside with a new renewal of irritation.

Niall is sat on the sofa, drinking from a sweating cup of iced something-or-another, and the girl from the photo is next to him, and they’re laughing, having not noticed that Harry’s here, that Harry’s a red-hot inferno of anger and jealousy and hatred and envy.

He kicks it shut, and it slams harshly, gathering their attention; Niall’s blue, blue eyes are wide and the girl is sickly amused, and Harry gulps, bites his lip because he never thought he would be in this situation, never thought he would do this, but he is and he knows exactly what to do.

“Leave,” he orders the girl, and she raises a brow in challenge, but Harry isn’t stepping down.

This is Niall ― this is Niall, and Harry won’t go down without a fight. 


	17. seventeen

Everything is just kind of really ― really fucked up now, more so than it was before.

“Excuse me?” Grace asks, and she’s fierce and firm with a fiery smirk that makes Niall wince, that makes him want to shrink into a ball on the sofa and go away for ever and ever and ever ― because Harry is a flame of anger, is a spark of irritation, and he can burn the whole world down in seconds if he isn’t curbed in time. “Do I know you?”

 _Yes. Yes, you know him. He’s_ Harry _._

Niall doesn’t say that, thought. He doesn’t want to shed light on Harry’s dark mind, doesn’t want to admit that he’s so, so close to falling in love with Harry just yet.

Soon, though. Soon. Hopefully.

But he does grab Grace's tea out of her hand, sets both hers and his down on the table in front of them. A stain and broken glass won’t do them any good.

Harry is red in the face; his ears are white and his cheeks are pink and his eyes ― they’re blue-gray today, with a hint of green, and it’s probably Niall’s favorite color, really, because it reminds him of the lakes in Ireland that are so clear, so smooth and free of ripples, that the waves reflect the tall, tall trees perfectly ― are flashed wide, and they’re sparkling in the light, and it’s scaring Niall because he knows what’s going on. Harry’s temper is hot, is boiling and icy and simmering and frosty all at once, and he’s about to blow. Harry is about to blow.

And is it Niall’s fault? Is it? Again?

He’s shit at a lot of things, but he excels in the art of pissing Harry off royally. He can’t help it sometimes.

“No, you don’t,” Harry bites out around gyrated teeth; his knuckles are curled and clenched, and they’re shockingly white against the darkness of his jeans, and Niall wants to rush forward, wants to wrap his fingers around Harry’s wrist and massage the color back into his skin. He doesn’t, though, because it isn’t his place to calm a raging Harry down ― it’s Lauren’s, and she isn’t here. She’s not here. “But I know him ―” Harry points a finger at Niall, refuses to meet Niall’s eyes as Niall’s vision begins to blur with stupid tears again; he can’t take much more of this, can’t continue to be exploited and abused and neglected, “― and I want you to leave so I can talk to my best friend.”

“You can do that right here.” Grace is smiling ― Grace is smiling, and Harry is fuming, and Niall is really, really frightened, and this isn’t good. Grace is oil and Harry is water and Niall is honey, and he learned in science that the density of all three of those won’t allow them to mix ―  smiles and anger and fright will not mix because of the density of everything, the heaviness and thickness of it all. “I don’t have to leave. This is not your flat. I do not have to leave unless Niall tells me to.”

Niall gulps, swallows the trepidation and confusion that’s risen up in his throat and threatened to choke off his oxygen, threatened to take him under and never let him go. This isn’t good ― this is not good.

“I want to talk to Niall alone,” Harry replies, adding emphasis to the word ― alone, alone, alone. Like Niall has been for the last six months, like Niall doesn’t feel whenever he’s with Grace. Why does Harry always have to mess up the good things that come into his life? “I want him and I alone, and I want you to leave, too.”

She laughs ― and she really needs to stop taunting Harry because Harry is a beast, is a force that cannot be reckoned with. She needs to stop now; Niall doesn’t want her hurt, Niall doesn’t want her to attack Harry with words, Niall doesn’t want Harry to attack her with his temper.

And no, Harry won’t hurt her. Physically, at least. Harry doesn’t fight ― Harry doesn’t fight, but he’s had cracked knuckles, he’s had broken noses, he’s had ripped temples, he’s had bruised ribs. Harry doesn’t fight, no, but he’s somehow always in a fight.

“I’m not leaving unless ―”

“Grace,” Niall interrupts her, and his voice is hard and cold, and he sounds like he’s sick, sounds like he’s feeling icky; her head swivels to look at him, and her eyes are wide as she tries to decipher just what Niall is thinking. And Harry? Well, he’s looking at Niall as if he’s gone crazy, as if he’s grown three more heads in the few moments he and Grace have been at it. And he probably has; however, all four are sharing a brain, and it’s doing him no good to have three extra heads when his common sense hasn’t tripled. “Gracie, stop. And leave. Leave please.”

“Why?” she asks, light and careful, and Niall knows she’s only worried, knows she only wants the best for him, and he adores her for it already, appreciates how caring and thoughtful and apologetic she is to and for him, but he needs to do this himself. Alone. “Why do you want me to leave you alone with this jackass?”

Oh. _Oh_.

“Listen here ―”

Grace is standing up then, and Niall’s following her, and she’s attempting to stride toward Harry, and Niall’s reaching out, grabbing her hand and holding her still, pulling her back to crash against his chest. She doesn’t know that Harry’s temper is wild, and Harry doesn’t know how important she already is to Niall, and neither are in their right mind at the moment, and Niall can’t let them fight, can’t let them turn words into knives and bullets that will only destroy.

“Gracie, please,” he says again, and he’s begging this time; the tears aren’t falling, but they’re thick and heavy and blurry on his lashes, and he’s _begging_. He just wants everything to finally be okay. “Just go. Go, and… and I’ll call you later. I’ll call you when everything is okay.”

When, because it will be. Everything _will_ be okay.

Grace’s face looks like a landscape after a harsh, captivating tornado ripped through, destroying houses and flattening trees and flipping vehicles; her eyes are dark and her face is torn, and Niall is full of guilt, full of disgust at himself for allowing Harry to do this to him, for allowing himself to be swept up in Harry’s harsh wind.

“If you’re sure.” She blinks, tugs her hand out of Niall’s and wraps her fingers around Niall’s elbow, holding him tight, and it’s a strength, a solidity Niall didn’t know he needed. He’s so glad to have her, so glad she rampaged into his life all of a sudden, so glad she isn’t going to up and abandon him any time soon. “If you’re positive, I’ll leave.”

“He is. He’s sure.” Harry moves as he’s talking, grabs the door and jerks it wide; he motions for her to leave, and his face isn’t as red as it was, isn’t as shot with blood and anger and fierce aggravation. “Now get out.”

“Niall?” Grace meets Niall’s eyes.

He nods, and she pulls him into a hug, pulls him against her chest, puts him against her heart and pats his back, and he feels warm, feels full of comfort and affection, and he knows ― he knows Grace isn’t a fair-weather friend, knows she isn’t the type to leave him in the slums when he needs her help. She’s amazing, and she makes Niall feel amazing, and Niall will always love Harry, but he already loves her in a completely different way.

She’s good for Niall. She’s good for Niall, and Harry isn’t. Harry isn’t good for Niall at all.

“’M sorry, Gracie.”

She nods, pulls back, and the soft, tender smile she gives Niall makes him feel as if he’s strong, makes him feel as if he can take on anything and conquer anything. Her smile makes him feel _invincible_.

“You are an inconsiderate asshole, Harry,” she spits as she meets Harry’s gaze, as she grabs her bag off of the table beside the door. “You are the biggest jerk I’ve ever had the bad fortune of meeting, and you do not deserve Niall. He’s too good for you.”

She’s gone then, out of the flat, and Niall’s heart is in his throat as Harry slams the door, as Harry twists the lock and drops his forehead against the wooden pane, and his breath is loud.

Niall feels wound tight, unbalanced in the rawest, nastiest of ways; his world has been turned upside down time and time again, and the fact that Harry is here now, tearing down the bit of harmony he’s found in the last few hours, infuriates him, sets a fire deep inside his stomach that’s burning everything up till he’s full of ashes, till all that’s left of him is hot embers with the dimmest flame.

“Why wasn’t your door locked?”

Niall’s pulled out of his thoughts, and he shakes his head, picks at his fingernails. “What?”

“Why didn’t you lock your door, Niall?” Harry repeats himself, more vociferous and hard, and he spins then, and the look in his eyes is wild. “Why didn’t you lock the fucking door?”

“I ― I ― I don’t ―” Niall’s scared, and he’s stuttering, and Harry’s spatting words left and right that makes Niall cringe, that makes him want to vomit. Lauren’s not here, not mucking up his emotions, and he still wants to puke, still wants to retch the ugliness out of his body. “I ― I just ―”

“You just what?” Harry moves closer then, quick and swift, and his hands are on Niall’s shoulders, and it’s weird, really, how gentle his touch is compared to the roughness of his tone. “Niall, that’s dangerous. And stupid. Don’t you know how important it is to lock your door when you’re alone?”

“I wasn’t alone.” Niall frowns, wets his lips as Harry’s grip tightens, as Harry pulls him a little bit closer. “I wasn’t alone, Harry.”

“You’re… you’re fragile, Niall,” Harry’s continuing, beginning his speech again as if Niall didn’t interrupt, as if Niall didn’t try to shove himself between the fright and fear scalding his soul. “You’re not the strongest person, and I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t want you to get hurt because you didn’t do something as trivial as locking a door, baby.”

 _Baby_. Again?

Harry needs to stop. He needs to stop pulling at Niall, needs to stop pleading and promising so Niall doesn’t get more attached, so Niall doesn’t lose himself deeper in Harry’s vortex. He’s trying to get better, and Harry’s a drug ― Harry’s the monster under the bed, the monster in the closet, the monster in the attic that haunts its prey, that stalks its prey till they’re beaten down, till they’re worn and weary, and when they’re on the crisp of getting stronger, of getting better, it pounces.

Harry’s a monster, and Niall’s the prey, and that’s all they’ll ever be.

“I’m not fragile,” Niall spits, and his words are fire that burns the air between him and Harry. “I’m not fragile, and I can take care of my goddamn self.”

Harry blanches, lets go of Niall’s shoulders and steps back, pressing his spine against the door. “But your door wasn’t locked, Niall.”

“Fuck the door!” Niall yells, and it feels good to yell, feels good to scream and curse and rage at the top of his lungs, feels good to let it out in a semi-healthy, mostly legal way. “Fuck the door, and fuck you, too.”

“Niall.” Harry’s shaking his head, and his eyes are wide and full of uncertainty, full of lackluster and light. “Niall, will you ―”

“I got here twenty minutes ago, Harry,” Niall cuts Harry off, and he’s relatively calmer, in a sense: his heart is on overdrive, his mind is fighting, but his tone is softer, quieter, easier to hear and simpler to understand. “Gracie and I just got back, and she made us something to drink while I used the bathroom. I didn’t think to lock the door because she was going to finish her tea and then leave. You can calm down, Harry.”

Harry licks his lips, brings his hands up to jerk through his hair, to tug at the curly, snarled tendrils. “It’s… it’s just that ― I worry about you, Ni,” Harry retorts, and he’s broken, whipped and dry and full of sorrow, and Niall can feel the emotions leaking out of Harry, can feel the desperation and sadness and anger billowing between them like a cloud of smog. “You’re not with me anymore, and I’m so worried about you because you aren’t. You’re not with me, and I can’t protect you if something happens to you.”

“I’ve not even been gone a day, Harry.”

And he’s not. Harry only left a few hours ago, four at the most, and since then Grace and Niall have been with one another, goofing off and learning and talking and getting to know each other, and it’s been fun, it’s been lovely. It’s served to take Niall’s mind off of Harry, served to show him how toxic Harry is.

“I know that.” Harry takes one hand out of his hair, curls his fingers into a ball and rubs at his eyes ― hard and fast and hard and fast. He looks like a toddler, too, like a disheveled little kid who is apologizing after getting berated by their authoritative figure. “I know that, and I already don’t like it. It’s not easy, Niall. It isn’t.”

“And whose fault is that?” Niall puts his hands on his hips, inhales deeply through his nose. “Whose fault is it that I’m no longer in my own house, Harry?”

Harry shakes his head again, over and over and over; he’s lost, and he’s hurting, and he’s crying, too, but there’s no tears falling from his bloodshot eyes, no wetness drizzling down his cheeks as he sobs dryly.

“I don’t know, Niall. _I don’t know_!”

Does he not? Is Harry really so far in the dark that he can’t wrap his mind around the fact that he’s the reason Niall’s gone?

“It’s you,” Niall replies, silk-like and tender. “You’re the reason why I left, Harry.”

“No,” is Harry’s immediate response, is Harry’s instant refusal of the truth. He drops his head, averts his eyes, and his shoulders are shaking and his hands are trembling, too. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Niall wraps his arms around himself, cups his elbows and rubs the protruding bone as he walks closer, as he invades Harry’s space. “You really are.”

“Why?” He brings his gaze back up, and there are tears falling out of his eyes now, dripping down his cheeks and drizzling off his nose and splashing from his prickly jaw. “Why did I make you leave?”

Niall takes a deep breath; the thickness in his chest, the heaviness in his heart, the darkness in his mind makes him hurt, makes him go cold.

“You ― you never talked to me, and you never let me talk to you,” Niall answers, and it’s something that needed to be said, something that should have been talked about six months ago, and now that he’s started he can’t ― he _won’t_ stop. “You ignore me, and you forget about me and blow me off and… and make me feel bad. All the time. You’re so successful, and you’re really smart and well-off, and I’m shit. I’m broke, and I don’t have a job, or a vehicle, and I’m shit, and I want to go home but ― but you’re there and I don’t want that.”

“ _Niall_.”

“Ever… ever since you and Lauren got together, that’s how it’s been. You’ve kicked me out of my own house, you’ve left me at work and made me have to walk home at dark in the rain, you’ve forgotten that I’m allergic to coconuts. You’ve made fun of me, and put me down, and hurt me, and I know you didn’t mean to, Harry ― I know you didn’t mean to, but you did. You’ve done it all, over and over and over, and I’m gone now, and that’s your fault. It’s _your_ fault, Harry.”

Harry rushes forward then, lays his hands easily on Niall’s cheeks, and they’re both moving backward then, both stumbling and almost crying till the bend of Niall’s knees hits the sofa and he’s falling, and Harry’s landing on top of him, too, and their chests are sloppily pressed against one another and their feet are entangled and their legs are splayed and they’re face-to-face.

Harry’s eyes are red, and blue and gray and green, too, speckled with dark brown and light silver, and they’re so pretty, so precious and full of sticky emotions. His hands are warm on Niall’s cheeks and his fingers are soft as the pads of his thumbs wipe away the wetness that has leaked unknowingly out of Niall’s eyes.

“I love you, Niall,” Harry says, and he’s heavy and thick, and Niall can feel everything ― _absolutely_ _everything_. “You’re my best friend. You’re one of the most important people in my life. I love you, and I don’t want to lose you.”

“Harry ―”

Harry’s lips are on Niall’s then, rough and mean and wet and hot, and it takes Niall’s breath away, makes him gasp Harry’s air, makes him taste Harry’s oxygen, makes him almost get lost in Harry’s flavor of sadness and peppermint and fruity chap stick; Harry’s mouth is vicious as he presses further, as he pushes hard, as he shoves his tongue inside and curls it around and around and around.

And Niall’s in shock. They’re lying on the sofa, pressed into and against one another, and Harry is kissing him, is swirling their tongues together and swapping spit, and Niall is in shock. He’s hot, pulsating and pounding and vibrating and jumping, and Niall is in shock ― because this shouldn’t be happening, because Harry is dating Niall’s cousin _and this shouldn’t be happening._

It shouldn’t be happening.

Niall brings his hands up, puts his palms flat against Harry’s chest and _shoves_ ― and then Harry’s mouth is ripped from Niall’s and he’s flying, landing awkwardly on his bum on the floor, and there’s a string of saliva that’s hanging from the edge of Niall’s lip, that’s making his neck sweat as it dampens his shirt.

Harry’s eyes are wide, and his lips are swollen and red, and he isn’t crying anymore, isn’t shedding tears now. “Niall ―”

“Leave.” Niall brings his hand up, touches at his lips; they’re sensitive and wet, and he hopes the iron he tastes in his mouth isn’t the blood Harry’s bitten out of his flesh. “Leave, Harry.”

“But Niall.” Harry struggles to stand, attempts to gather his wits about himself. “Niall, don’t ―”

“ _Leave_.”

“Niall ― Niall, please.” He’s crying again. Harry’s crying, and Niall’s eyes are on fire. “Please don’t do it, Niall. _Please_.”

“Go,” Niall demands, orders him to leave, but Harry’s hand is reaching out for him, is grabbing at the air between, and he isn’t leaving. _He’s not going_. “Get out of house!”

It’s quite weird, really, because Niall can see Harry’s heart break, can see the color drain from his face and the light dim in his eyes, and he nods, says ‘Okay’ under his breath and wiggles his fingers in a halfhearted goodbye as he walks toward the door, as he slips the lock and slides out of the flat, out of Niall’s life.

The door slams with a gentle click, and Niall stands up, walks forward and turns the lock to avoid another unwanted confrontation. His heart is in the pit of his stomach, and the acid is tearing at the healthiness of the organ, and ― and _oh God, oh God, oh God_.

It’s coming. He’s going to freak out, going to lose his mind. Harry kissed him, and _it’s coming._

Niall’s phone rings then, buried deep in his pocket, and he jerks it out, swears under his breath and wipes at his eyes; the number is unknown, isn’t saved in his phone, but he shrugs, answers it anyway.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause, and then: “Hello, is this Niall Horan?”

Niall nods, rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

“Good. My name is Sal Piersant, and I’m the curator at the National Gallery Museum in Trafalgar Square, and you have been recommended to me by a very good friend of mine. Do you have time to talk?”


	18. eighteen

Harry sighs, pushes the lukewarm mug of too-sweet, too-strong coffee out of his reach and grapples for his phone, taking it out of the pocket of his overcoat; he’s been sat at the café for two hours now, hunched over in the corner booth at the back of the place, after he received the text asking him if it was okay to leave work early, impatiently waiting for the intervention he knows is about to come.

After all, it’s been three days since his and Niall’s confrontation, since he smashed his lips against Niall’s in a kiss borne of fury and made of metal, and he knows it’s coming ― Louis doesn’t just up and ask him to go out anymore, and Liam just doesn’t skip out on his father anymore, and Zayn just doesn’t leave his humble cabin on the backend of town anymore without it being something major, without it being something of epic proportions.

He knows it’s coming, knows he’s going to get an earful of Louis’s protectiveness, of Liam’s levelheadedness, of Zayn’s quietness. He knows it’s coming ― _he knows_. There’s not really a point in trying to hide that fact behind asking him out for coffee, anyway; Niall isn’t here, isn’t on his way, and Harry’s not the smartest person, really, but he’s always prided himself on his common sense.

If only they graded you over that in school instead of the utter importance of knowing how determine the slope of a graph. Yeah, maybe if they’d teach about sense instead of basic maths, he would not have had to take a zero-level course his first year in university.

But that’s all in the past ― like his failing score, like his horrible graduation mishap, like his bloody knees and broken bicycle chain after he raced home from a fight, like the pranks he’s pulled on his sister and the lengths at which she’s gone to get him back, like the many hours he and Niall spent together studying algebra and geometry so he could test out of the zero-level class. All of it is in the past, has been put away, has gone by to never be experienced again.

The kiss is in the past, too.

It’s weird, though, because Harry doesn’t really want to put that in the past, doesn’t want to lock it up in a box in the dark to never be pilfered through again. He wants to relive the touch, over and over and over, and it was such an awful kiss, such a terrible attempt at a first intimate touch, but it’s still perfect, in the oddest of ways ― Niall’s lips were dry, and Harry’s cheeks were wet from his tears, and he hit too hard, as well, knocked his tooth into his lip and busted not only his skin but Niall’s, too, but it was still perfect.

He can’t explain as to why he thought it was a good idea to shut Niall’s nasty, honest words up with a kiss, though; can’t tell you why, can’t tell you how, can’t tell you when he decided to make the split-second decision to put his lips to Niall’s and kiss and kiss and _kiss_.

And he damn sure can’t explain why he liked, can’t put meaning behind the reason he blatantly cheated on his girlfriend with her cousin, can’t elaborate as to why he doesn’t feel guilty about the action, either.

It didn’t work out that way, though, did it? _No_ ― oh, no. Niall didn’t return the touch, didn’t let loose of the tension and strain in his body, didn’t kiss back. Instead, he put his hands to Harry’s chest and _shoved_ ― shoved so hard Harry went flying, shoved so hard  Harry fell and bruised his bum, shoved so hard Harry’s heart kind of shattered, kind of splattered and stabbed into his mind, stabbed into his soul.

And it hurt. It hurt because Harry doesn’t want to mess up what he has with Niall by doing something stupid, by practically forcing himself on Niall when Niall didn’t want it, when Niall doesn’t want it.

Harry’s not sure he wants it, either. He’s done a good job at keeping his sexuality a secret from his family, from his friends, from his best friend, from his girlfriend; sex doesn’t equal sexuality, and it’s never mattered to him if his partner has a penis or a vagina, really, though he’s always been kind of more tuned into females because he lost his virginity to a lovely girl after Sunday morning church when he was seventeen and she was nineteen, because he’s never been with a man in the way that he has women.

He’s kind of scared to take that step, really, never found a male he wouldn’t mind sharing his first experience with. And it’s stupid, really ― stupid, because Harry is fearless, because Harry is avidly himself and nobody else, and he’s scared to be with a man. He doesn’t know _how_.

It shouldn’t be very much different than being with a woman. It’s not. Except where you put your dick, but that’s a trivial expense Harry doesn’t mind paying.

He was dubbed straight as soon as he entered university, as soon as he met the group of friends he has now, decided to not correct anybody because it was a waste of time, and he likes to keep himself private, for the most part. It’s nobody’s business who he beds, who he doesn’t bed, and when he beds them ― it’s nobody’s business but his.

He’ll admit it. He’ll say it, to himself, at least ― he’s pansexual; he doesn’t care what a person is as long as they’re good, as long as they’re great, as long as they’re worthy of all the love Harry has to give. But his friends don’t know, and his mum and dad and stepdad don’t know, and his girlfriend doesn’t know, and Niall doesn’t, either, but Gemma does, kind of, because she walked in on him watching gay porn when he was sixteen, when he was figuring so many things out ― that was a fun conversation, by the way. Totally fucking _wild_.

Nobody knows because he’s afraid they’ll not accept him, because he’s afraid they’ll question and pick at his choices, at his mind, till he can’t take it anymore, till he has doubts about who he is as a person. He’s never doubted himself before, either.

Yeah. Yeah, Harry’s _afraid_. He’s always scared ― he’s scared, but he’s learned that being fearless means you’re strong enough to admit when you aren’t okay, to admit when things are not okay. He’s afraid, but he’s fearless, too.

At least, he thought he was. He thought he was before he kissed Niall, before he cheated on his girlfriend, before he tilted everybody’s lives upside down by a selfish, half-assed act to keep holding on to something great.

He’s stupid ― he’s so fucking _stupid_.

“Mate, you aren’t crying, are you?”

Harry gulps, raises his eyes from his phone’s blank screen and sees that Louis is stood before him, dressed in jeans and a large brown jacket that Harry is sure belonged to him at one point in time, and there’s a smirk on his lips, a smug grin that makes Harry’s eyes crinkle, that makes Harry’s temper begin to simmer.

“No.” Harry shakes his head, wipes at the invisible tears beneath his eyes; he’s done enough crying the last few days to fill a river, to start a flood, and he reckons the red-rimmed white is a semi-permanent addition. “No, I’m not bloody crying. Take a seat, fuckin’ dick.”

Louis chortles, rolls his eyes and scoots in next to Harry, leaving plenty of space between them. The booth is large, and when all five of them used to come together, way back when in their glory days, Harry and Niall would share while Louis, Liam, and Zayn squished together opposite them.

It was so much fun ― he had _so much fun_ back then, when real-life was an elusive star in the sky that none of them wished upon at night. To say he wouldn’t mind taking a step back in time would be a lie, and Harry’s a lot of things, yes, but he’s never been a liar.

“Wasn’t too much of a hassle getting off work early, was it?” Liam asks as he slides in opposite Harry and Louis, dressed impeccably in a gray silk suit with the cuffs rolled up to his forearms, showcasing the inky art on his skin.

Harry shrugs. “Not really. I’m in good standing with Paul, and he’s cool with me skipping as long as I get my work done by the end of the day, and I can do it all from home if I wanted.” Paul’s a great guy ― supportive, lenient, bit of a tight-ass but otherwise too cool to not like, too relaxed to not respect. “How’s the book coming ‘long, Zayn?”

Zayn hums, reaching for the menu that’s been set between the four of them. “It’s going good. Doniya’s very happy with how it’s turning out, and won’t stop talking about it nonstop to everybody we run in to.” He nods. “I mean, she ought to be, ya know? Proud of it. I’m busting my ass trying to finish it before her editor’s deadline, which is January second, of all days, and he isn’t about to extend the time. What a great fucking guy, he is. I hope he gets nothing but coal for Christmas.”

Louis snorts, Liam smothers a laugh with his hand, and Harry blinks because he’s got no earthly idea what’s going on, because he’s been away from his friends for so long that he forgot they have problems, too ― ones that are bigger than those Harry is dealing with.

“And the office?” Harry turns his attention to Liam. “How’s it like working for your dad?”

Liam sighs, leans back in the booth and shakes his head. “I never thought climbing the ladder in a business would be so hard, mate. Makes it worse that I have my dad on my back all day. He’s just trying to make sure I do everything right, I know, but he’s too busy focusing on me to realize that his secretary and aid are fucking in his office when he’s in meetings and out for the day.”

“Well, damn. This is juicy.” Harry rubs his palms together, blows at a wisp of hair that’s escaped the bun he put it in earlier. “Tell me more. I’m ready for it all.”

“You’re not really ready at all, mate.”

Harry frowns, turns his head to look at Louis. “What are you talking about?” he asks, feigns innocence, but he knows ― he knows it’s coming, and he also knows he won’t be able to get out of this mess because, for one, he’s blocked in against the window and for two, he’s too big to be crawling up and over the table, too clumsy to not seriously harm himself.

He’s, quite literally, so far up shit’s creek he can hear the disgust calling out his name like a prayer, like a chant.

“You know.” Zayn sets the menu down, closes the front flap and pushes it to the side. “You know exactly what’s fixing to happen.”

“No, I don’t.” But he _does_ ― he does, but he doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to own up to his shortcomings in the same way he doesn’t want to advertise his sexuality. Some things are better kept to yourself, he thinks. “I honestly don’t.”

Liam sighs again, and he looks tired, so tired, and Harry wonders if he’s sleeping regularly, wonders if he’s getting enough rest between ten-hour days at the office. “Harry, you can’t honestly sit there and say you’ve not noticed that Niall ―”

“He’s okay, isn’t he?” Harry interrupts Liam, moves around in the seat till he’s slightly less uncomfortable than he was before. “He’s doing all right, isn’t he?”

It’s been three days, and Harry hasn’t attempted to contact Niall, and Niall’s not tried to call or speak with Harry, either. Maybe that’s what they need ― maybe what they need the most is space from one another so they can both level their sporadic thoughts and ripe actions, but Harry can’t snip out his worry even if he tried.

“He’s just fine, yeah.” Zayn nods. “He’s at work right now, I think, but he’s fine. He’s doing well.”

Harry wets his lips, swallows around the dissatisfaction that’s formed a lump in his throat. “And he’s adapting to his new flat well?” Harry asks again, and it’s probably suspicious, probably setting off alarm bells in everybody’s heads as Harry demands to know if Niall’s okay, demands to know if Niall’s liking the new arrangement that’s been set up.

“He likes his flat a lot more than he likes living with you.”

Harry blinks, looks Liam in the eyes, and it’s a hard stare that churns all sorts of nasty emotions in his stomach, in his heart. “What is that supposed to mean?” he snarls, spits, recalling the words Niall yelled at him, remembering everything that was said and done three days ago in the heat of the moment, in the height of vulnerability.

He remembers it all.

“It means exactly what he said,” Louis replies, answers the question; Harry leans back and to the side, and he’s now able to see everyone’s face, able to gauge everyone’s expressions. “It was Lauren’s idea to look ‘round for Niall a place to stay, Harry.”

“I know this.” Harry’s hot, and the black overcoat he’s wearing feels like a furnace, feels like a second layer of skin that’s burning and melting and peeling. “You’re telling me something I already know.”

“It was Lauren’s idea, Harry,” Louis repeats himself, gives Harry a sour glare that makes Harry fume. “But I was the one that pushed it. I was the one who forced Niall to sign the papers and move out.”

Harry blinks, and his eyes are warm now, prickling with angry tears, infuriated tears. “Why?” he asks, quiet and soft and simple; his heart is on fire and his mind is a burning chasm of Niall, Niall, _Niall_ ― it’s all he wants, all he can think about. He only wants Niall. “Why would do you that to him? To me?”

“Can’t you see why?” Liam answers with another question, secure and levelheaded, as always, and for once Harry wants to see Liam rage, wants to see Liam pick apart the place and tear things to shreds. Harry knows Liam can, has seen Liam in action a time or two, and it’s a frightening, beautiful thing. Liam is like a tornado: wild, destructive, leaving behind death and pretty blue skies. “Don’t you know why Louis did that?”

Harry shakes his head, bites his lip, picks at the skin that’s peeling off of his finger till it bleeds, till it stings, till it’s raw; it’s a lot easier to focus on physical pain, a lot easier to let it consume you than mental and emotional.

“You’re not good for Niall.”

Harry’s eyes lock on Zayn’s. “Why not?” He’s mad now ― he’s been mad, been furious, been skating the thin line of safety and insanity for a while, but he’s afraid he’s about to be pushed off of his perch. “Why am I not good enough for Niall?”

“Harry ―”

“No,” he cuts Liam off, shakes his head and slaps his palm on the table, and it’s a loud noise that draws the attention of the few people in the café, that causes a complete silence to fall over the spicy-smelling place, but he can’t care less about the scene he knows he’s putting on, reckons it’ll be the highlight of their day should a fight break out. “Tell me now. Tell me why I’m not good enough for Niall anymore.”

“Lauren.” Louis is unwavering, is solid and steady as he meets Harry’s gaze, and Hharry doesn’t like the way sharp icicles have formed in Louis’s blue eyes. “It’s Lauren.”

Harry’s nose crinkles, and his lips curl upward in a dirty snarl that makes him huff. “What the fuck does Lauren have to do with it?” he demands, and it’s pumping through his blood, invading his veins, tearing apart his resolve ― _it_ being anger, _it_ being ferocity. He’s going to blow ― he’s going to blow because they’re sidestepping Harry’s orders, because they’re talking about Lauren when she is the furthest thing from what Harry wants to discuss. She doesn’t even matter at the moment. “Huh? What does she have to do with this?”

“You’re dating her,” Zayn points out the obvious.

_Thank you._

“Yeah, and I’ve also bought her a ring for Christmas, too,” Harry adds, rolls his eyes and snorts out a steaming breath that does nothing to ease the igniting embers inside. “I still don’t know what she has to do with this, though. What are you not telling me? What do I need to know?”

“It’s not her fault, really, but she’s the reason you don’t need to be around Niall anymore,” Liam attempts to explain, tries to find the right words to voice his thoughts as he picks at a bump in the table. “You and Niall were good ― perfect, even ― till she came along, and you’ve not only been neglecting Niall and us, but your family and other friends, too. Your mum and Gem have even called us to make sure you’re still alive, mate.”

Oh. Oh, he’s not talked to his mum in about month now, has he? Wow.

“Lauren’s a great person, and we all love her to pieces,” Zayn picks up where Liam left off, “but she’s the root of a lot of problems that are being caused by you, Harry.”

“What you’re saying is that I should choose my friends over the girl I love?” Harry barks out a humorless laugh that echoes around the café, that grabs hold of everybody’s attention and keeps it held hostage in a tight grip. “You three are my closest friends ― asking me to choose you over my girlfriend is kind of shitty, don’t you think?”

“But it’s not shitty to ditch Niall at work and force him to walk home in the rain at night? It’s not shitty to bake him a cake and forget he’s fucking allergic to coconuts?” Louis is fast, is sparky and breathing fire as he bites back, as he pours water on Harry’s inferno. “It’s not shitty that you’ve skipped on hanging out with him, that you’ve used him, that you’ve forgotten about him, that you’ve very nearly asked him to leave so you can fuck Lauren on the kitchen table? It’s not shitty that you don’t ring us, that you don’t ask us out anymore, that you don’t know what’s going on in our lives? None of that is shitty, is it?”

_Fucking Louis._

“How do you know that?” Harry is strong, steady with his words, but his ashes are burning, and he feels it rising, feels it growing in his tummy, and he hates the way it tastes, hates the way it makes him simmer. “How do you know all of that?”

“Niall talks to us,” Louis spits as he pushes away, as he stands up from the booth, as Zayn and Liam follow with their eyes slit and their hands shoved in the pockets of their clothes. “Niall talks to us because he can’t talk to you anymore.”

But they don’t understand ― _they_ _just_ _don’t_ _understand_. Niall is Harry’s best friend, one of Harry’s favorite people, and nobody knows what they’ve gone through together, what they’ve pushed through and conquered and felled from. And there’s no way anybody’s going to help Harry, help Niall, because what they need is each other, what they want is each other.

No, they don’t understand. They don’t understand the memories Harry’s drowning in, the good ones that fill his heart and the bad ones that fill his gut. They’ll never understand because they don’t know what he’s got to lose if Niall leaves him.

He’s up then, tripping over his own feet, and he’s shoving into Louis, being grabbed by Liam as he and Louis fall to the floor, as he and Louis knock over tables and chairs, breaking and cracking and spilling the condiments, and Zayn’s yelling ― Zayn’s yelling at nobody, at everybody, at somebody.

“Call the police! _Call the police_!”

 

 


	19. nineteen

The thing about police stations ― and other official buildings and businesses, really, if you wanted to take the time to notice ― is that they are very clean. And bright ― cleaner than clean, brighter than bright. Clean, bright, and cold, and only because of germs and infections, only because a lot of the people booked are nasty, are dirty, are sick in ways that they probably don’t even know of, and chilliness is one of the best, most effective ways of snipping a few problems here and there before they even start.

However, the holding cells, the interrogation rooms ― those stinky boxes of iron, of cement that’s pressed somewhere in the back of the station where it’s dark, and dirty and dank and moldy ― aren’t clean, aren’t bright, aren’t cold. They’re filthy, and black, and hot.

And they’re quite possibly the worst, most foul space Harry’s ever found himself confined in, and Harry’s all too glad to have been removed nearly as soon as he was shoved inside.

Hmm. You learn something every day, huh?  

But Harry’s clean. He’s clean because he cried dozens of buckets of tears on the way to the station, because the front of his shirt is translucent and sheer instead of white, and the saltiness kind of cleansed him of any infection, of any trespasses, and he’s not worried about getting sick, really.

He is worried about Louis, though. He’s worried about Louis, about how horribly Harry has bent and twisted and skewered their friendship, about how terrible he has slaughtered a great thing. He didn’t hit Louis, by the way, and though Louis decked him in the crotch, brought his knee up and laid Harry out and shoved him off and yelled in his face till the police arrived, till he was jerked up and cuffed and pushed into a car, Harry didn’t fight back, decided tackling one of his best friends and destroying two tables and knocking his head on the ground in the process was more than enough for him.

Harry doesn’t fight. Harry hates fighting, hates how it’s completely unnecessary; lunging at Louis may contradict his beliefs, though, but he doesn’t like violence, detests the way it makes his fingertips numb and the impression it leaves on hundreds.

He’s not mad about Louis’s retaliation, either, can’t find it in him to be sour about the fact that Louis was cussing, that Louis was screaming and yelling and hitting, that Liam was jerking and grabbing and fisting, that Zayn was talking and patting and soothing. He’s not mad at any of them ― because they’re his friends, because they’re his brothers, because they’re three of his most favorite people in the whole wide world.

No, he’s not mad or upset at them. Not really. He only hopes they’re not cross with him, only prays they’ll forgive him of his mistake once they realize he’s going to try.

To get better, that is. And not just for them, and not just for his family and girlfriend, and not just for Niall, either, but for himself. He’s not talked with his mum, with Gemma or his dad or stepdad in a while; he’s not sat down, asked his friends how they’re doing and talked out of his ass till the wee hours of morning since he met Lauren, and he wants to change that.

There’s certain things one needs in life. Nutrition, of course, and a healthy lifestyle and moderate diet; common sense, average intelligence, and a few little tidbits of funky info here and there can get a person far. Sympathy, kindness, support, respect, hope, discretion, faith, and acceptance are all important, as well, but relationships are probably the most primary, the most premier. Life’s a pain in the ass, but with relationships ― with friends, with family, with signification others that know you, that know what makes you tick ― that pain in the ass is a little bit more bearable than it otherwise is without the joy of being connected with somebody so intimately, so raw.

The door of the interrogation room opens, and Harry raises his head from his hands, sees that the officer that cuffed him and pushed him into the back of the car is standing in the entryway, and he’s a short man with a receding hairline of peppered hair that once used to be black and a growing tummy, and Harry doesn’t like his attitude, doesn’t like his complete unprofessionalism with which he works, doesn’t like the way he holds himself high above everybody else.

His roughness, the degrading words in Harry’s ear and hard yanks on Harry’s arms, on Harry’s shoulders and hair ― totally uncalled for.

“Your friend isn’t pressing charges for assault, and the owner of the café says she’ll forget about everything if you pay to have everything fixed that was broken, too,” he announces, and Harry fights back the urge to roll his eyes ― he was taught to respect everybody in his life, and the authorities are high up on that list, but it’s hard, _so hard_ , to treat somebody like this as a solid equal ― because the officer is telling him everything he already knows, everything he knew before he was cuffed and thrown into the car. “However, you were booked on disturbing the peace, and you’re going to be fined for that, too.”

Of course. Fucking great.

“How much?” Harry asks, and it’s been three full hours since he’s spoken, since he’s uttered a single word to anybody, and he clears his throat of the rasp, of the thickness, tries to speak again and hopes he’s clearer than he was before. “How much is it going to be?”

He’s not worried about the money, really. He’s just worried about when he’s going to be able to be let loose of this hellish grip he’s found himself in because of his fiery-hot temper.

The officer ― Harry doesn’t know his name, and the man refused to ever say through the too-long minutes he and Harry spent with one another; his badge has been taken off, has already been unclipped and laid on his desk, and Harry can’t see that far to read it if it were still there, anyway ― shrugs, crosses his arms above his protruding belly and leans against the doorframe. “I’m not sure yet,” he replies, purses his lips as if he’s a king, as if he’s the most important person in the world. “I’ll have to do a bit more paperwork, and you’ll be contacted in a few days with the sum, which will have to be paid in a certain amount of time.”

Harry nods, ignores the fact that he doesn’t feel the least bit worried about the money, about the figures he’s going to be withdrawing. His bank account is fairly full, and he’s been working overtime lately, hours and hours and hours after the studio has closed in hopes of ignoring the problems that await him as soon as he steps out of the place, and he knows he’s going to get a Christmas bonus, as well; this impromptu trip to the slammer isn’t going to cost him near as much in expenses as it is in other places.

And ― and fuck, he’s still not finished his Christmas shopping, has he? He’s not even started, been so consumed with the stress of work and Niall and Lauren, and the strain that’s being put on him, that’s slowly making him lose his mind, is taking over his life.

Holy shit. He’s shit ― Harry is total _shit_.

That realization makes his eyes go wide.

“Can I go now?” Harry asks, tries to be respectful and kind, but the officer has one of those demeanors, one of those faces ― with a sneer, a smug smirk that never settles, that always makes blood boil no matter what, and a judgmental gaze that pokes out every single flaw, that finds the nasty things in a person and puts them on display for the whole world to see, to laugh at and make fun of ― that Harry hates.

And Harry doesn’t hate anybody, has never detested a living thing in his life. He hates sickness, and irrationality and closed-mindedness and disrespect; hates ugliness, hates nastiness, hates meanness, hates when people are rude, when people are scared, when people feel less than they are. He hates ferocity, hates neglect, hates seeing people suffer, hates seeing animals being neglected. He hates intangible things: sticky emotions and harmful thoughts and unbecoming characteristics that make people certifiably horrible.

He can’t help it, though. He _hates_ this man in front of him. He’s like everything rolled up into one: intimidation, disrespect, nastiness. He is the living embodiment of everything that Harry tries to stand against.

“Yeah.” The officer nods. “If you can call somebody to pick you up and sign you out, yeah, you can leave.”

 _What the fuck is this place? A_ school _?_

Harry nods, pushes away from the cold table and stands; the chair scrapes against the floor, creates a reverberating noise that makes Harry’s neck itch, that makes Harry’s fingers tingle. He walks toward the door, gives the officer a look before exiting, and he’s in a bright corridor with a dark red door at the end; he hooks a right, remembers being shoved and cursed at as he slowly ambled down the hallway, and quickens his pace once he hears the officer begin to follow behind.

That was three hours ago, by the way. Harry’s been in that room for _three_ _hours_ ― three hours without food, without water, without a restroom break. Three hours of being alone, of being confined in a semi-large, gray room that’s cold and illuminated and very, very scary. Three hours of thinking, and thinking, and thinking and thinking and thinking.

And he’s sorry. He’s sorry for being callous, for being forgetful, for being awful in way he’s never even imagined he could be. He’s sorry for ditching his friends, sorry for blowing them off to be with his girlfriend; he’s sorry for practically ignoring his mum, for not taking any of Gemma’s calls, for not replying to the texts that’s been sent by his dad and stepdad. He’s sorry for the words he’s said and not said, sorry for the actions he’s done and not done.

He’s _sorry_.

And he wants to tell them that, wants to tell his friends ― wants to tell Niall that he’s sorry, _so sorry_ , that he’ll do better, that he’ll be better than he was before, that he’ll be the best they’ve ever seen.

He wants them to know he’s aware of his mistakes now, wants them to know that he’s seen the wrong he’s done, wants them to know that he’s going to try ― and try and try and _try_ till he succeeds ― to get better for them, for himself.

That can wait, though. All of that ― apologizing, ringing up his mum ― can wait because right now, at this very moment, he needs to get out of this dank, chilly station, needs to forget about the booking officer’s malicious tendencies.

And he’s got one name on his mind as he picks up the phone ― it’s a payphone, kind of, old and crusty with a few substances Harry would rather not touch his face with ― as he dials the numbers by heart.

It rings, and rings and rings and rings, and then, so softly, so gently, so confused and accepting, Niall’s saying, “Hello?”

And it’s a rush, a relief, a proverbial flood of alleviation that makes Harry sag against the wall, that makes him sigh, that makes him smile and drop his head in soothing comfort. “Niall? It’s Harry.”

“Harry?” Niall’s tone is clipped, hard, and Harry can’t blame him, really, because the last time they spoke, the last time they tried to fix what was going on between them, Harry kissed Niall and Niall rejected him. Harry doesn’t blame Niall for being cross with him at all. “Harry, what’re you ―”

“I’m in some trouble, Ni,” Harry cuts Niall off, raises his head and looks around at the place, studies the desks that’s littered with files and the officers that’s dressed in ragged uniforms and the brightness, the cleanliness. And he wants to leave now, right now, and never wants to come back. Ever. “I’m ― I’m at the police station, Niall. Can you come pick me up?”

-

Harry takes a deep breath, tries to cool his heated, red face off after relaying to Niall just why he had to call in late to work to come pick up his best friend, why he had to make up some shit excuse having a flat tire so he could drive all the way across town. He feels better, in a way ― it’s off his chest, what happened at the café, and in the air now to circle and swirl around, and Niall’s only heard it from Harry, only been told of the situation by Harry.

He knows that Louis will tell Niall about everything, too, though, knows Louis can’t hide anything from Niall ― because Niall’s precious, because he’s the star in Louis’s eyes and the gentleness in Harry’s heart.  

“You’re not saying anything, Niall.”

Niall sighs, readjusts his grip on the wheel and blinks away whatever raging thoughts are taking over his mind as he eases between cars, switching lanes and avoiding smearing paint with other vehicles. “I’m not really sure what you want me to say,” he replies, shrugs his shoulders and slides Harry a quick look before flicking on his blinker and pulling off the onto a blacktop road that leads into a rather new housing edition. “What you did and how you acted was immature, Harry.”

“I know.” Harry nods, furrows his brow and leans against the cold window, praying that the bite of chill will take him far, far away. “I know it was.”

“And what they were telling you, everything they were saying ― it all needed to be said, too.”

“I know that.” Harry blinks, and his lids are heavy and it’s just been a long, long day that needs to end already. “I don’t think it’s right that they chose to call me out on everything I’ve done in public, though. I don’t think it’s right that we made a scene ‘cause none of us realized it was better to do that sort of thing behind closed doors. Do you?”

Niall shakes his head, taps his brakes. “No, I don’t,” he replies, and the warmth in Harry’s tummy rivals the heat in his heart he felt when he and Niall were kissing days ago. “Especially not with your temper. You’re kind of crazy, Harry. They should’ve thought everything through before they decided to say something to you.”

“They shouldn’t have said anything to me at all.”

Niall snorts, gives Harry an incredulous look, and the coldness with which he’s treating Harry is slowly causing ice to form around Harry’s heart. “Everything they said needed to be heard, Harry.”

“I didn’t want to hear it from them,” Harry answers, and it’s funny, really, how he was burning red with anger only hours before at being called out on his shit, and now that it’s happening again he’s a little bear cub, a tiny blue security blanket that fits perfectly in the chubby fingers of a child; his heart is cool and he doesn’t want to fight anymore, doesn’t want to cause another scene when it’s easily avoided, when the outcome is not worth the effort. “I wanted to hear it from _you_ , Niall.”

“I tried to tell you,” Niall says, and they’re on the street they ― they’re on the street Harry lives on now. _Wow_. “I tried to tell you so many times, but you wouldn’t listen. You never listened to me.”

Harry doesn’t open his mouth, knows he has nothing else to say because Niall is right and he is wrong.

It’s silent after that, and the tension in the car is fierce, is blistering and scalding and freezing and biting all at once, and Harry hates the way it makes him prickle, hates the way it makes Niall’s breath begin to flutter in uneven pants that echo the soft music playing on the radio, hates the way it makes them feel like strangers when they’re anything but.

Harry wants to say something, wants to apologize, wants to tell Niall about the altering decisions he’s made while being at the station, but he can’t. He can’t because his mouth won’t open, can’t because his heart is bleeding all the things he wants to say instead of feel, instead of taste and touch and see.

Niall pulls up next to Harry’s house, and it’s a large edition with a spacious yard that looms high and wide, and Harry hates how big it is, hates how lonely and disgustingly dark it is inside.

“Can I walk you to the door?”

Harry swallows, looks over at Niall’s pleading, wet eyes and nods ― nods because he can’t tell Niall knows, nods because he’s never been able to tell Niall no. “Please.”

They exit the car together, slamming their doors in harmony; they walk side-by-side, and Niall’s wearing the ugly red polo again and Harry’s overcoat has long since been discarded and thrown over his arm as they make their way up the path and onto the porch.

It’s awkward, standing with one another as Harry fiddles about with his keys, digging in his pockets and searching for the sharp object when words of unspoken apologies are floating in the air between them, are sliding against their tongues like legs moving between the sheets in a heat of desire, of love and affection and viscid climaxes.

He needs to say it. Harry needs to say everything ― _now_.

“Niall ―”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Niall cuts him off, reaches out and grabs his hand from his pocket, and their cold fingers interlace, intertwine, and it’s one of the most electric sensations Harry’s ever felt. “I’m really sorry, Harry.”

“For what?” Harry blinks, swallows around the giddiness in his tummy. Niall’s touching him ― _Niall’s_ _touching_ _him_ , and it feels good, _so good,_ so warm and hot and cold and wet. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m just ― I’m sorry for everything, okay? Is that okay?”

Harry nods. “S’fine, Ni,” he says, but it’s not ― it’s not because Niall has done no wrong, has done nothing to warrant an apology. “And I’m sorry, too, baby. I’m ― I’m really, _really_ sorry, Ni.”

For everything. For the pressuring, and the forgetting, and the neglecting and the nastiness and the kissing. Harry’s sorry for kissing Niall when Niall didn’t want to be kissed.

But he’s not sorry that he did it, per se, not sorry that he liked it.

It’s a mess then, as Niall jerks Harry forward, as Niall keeps their fingers locked, as Niall wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulders and holds Harry close, holds Harry’s face against his shoulder ― it’s a mess, but it’s perfect, and Harry lets out a little noise, lets out a sigh of wild abandonment and wraps Niall up and holds him tight, tight, tight because Harry is the toddler, and Niall’s eyes are the blue security blanket.  

They’ve not been like this in a while. They’ve not been in one another’s arms without crying, without whining, without the fear of letting go in so long that it floors Harry, that it takes him by surprise and dries up his eyes, warms his body, makes him hot all over.

“Can we stay like this?” Harry asks, tries to hide his face in Niall’s neck; this is paradise, utter heaven, and Harry doesn’t want to let Niall go.

“Like this?” Niall’s lips are right next to Harry’s cheek, are so close they’re grazing the skin, and Harry’s shivering ― Harry’s shivering at the feel of Niall’s lips on his skin, at the thought of the feel of Niall’s lips on his skin, and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t want to know why.

But he likes it. He likes it so fucking much, and he knows Niall likes it, too.

“Yeah. Like this.” Harry smiles, puts his lips against Niall’s neck and eats up the shudder that makes Niall’s knees wobble. “Just like this.”

 


	20. twenty

Niall dances around a slow-moving group of friends with plastic bags and wild-colored hair as they meander down the walk and hurries to rush inside the automatic doors; he’s hit a wall of chilly air that’s masked by the brightness of the supermarket, and it’s bitter enough outside to warrant a few layers without the lack of warmth inside. Gooseflesh immediately shivers onto his skin, and he’s cursing himself for ― yet again ― forgetting to grab a jacket to wear while he works.

This time, however, wasn’t really his fault. He was dressed and grabbing his wallet, counting out what little bit of paper money he had to pay for the bus and snatching his jacket when he received the call, and he was tempted to ignore it, tempted to hit whatever button it is that sends a person straight to voicemail, where they rightfully belong, but he remembered ― he remembered going out with one of Louis’s friends two years ago, a bloke with buzzed hair and thick arms and a little mind, remembered how the night started off gentle but turned into rough, remembered shoving and hitting and slapping and calling Harry to please, please come get him, and Harry made it all better.

Harry made it all better, and Niall owes him, really.

So Niall caught the bus to Louis’s, who drove him to the café where Harry had left his car parked and made his way toward the station, and it was a long drive filled with Harry’s comfort music ― the Rolling Stones, Queen, CCR, Def Leppard, Bruce Springsteen, Kim Carnes, Cher, and Jimi Hendrix, all burned off on the same CD, mind you by a drunken, emotional Harry one night three years ago ― and loads of sticky thoughts and too many wipes at his nose.

He was mad. He was angry, and upset and hurt, and all he could think about was the kiss, was the touch of lips Harry forced upon him; he’s still not sure if he wanted that, still not sure if Harry meant to cause a rift between them so deeply.

He hated it. He hated the kiss with everything that he’s made out of because ― because he’s in love with Harry, because Harry is gentle and soft and sweet and caring and kind, and that kiss was rough, and nasty and hard and oppressive, and that’s not Harry _. It’s not Harry._

Niall hated the kiss more than he’s ever hated anything before, more than he hated that soiled date and the all the others that came before and after. Nobody can compare to Harry, can keep up with his dryness, with his exceptional affection and adoration ― Harry’s level is unreachable by anybody else.

But all of his anger, all of his livid irritation kind of wilted away when he pulled up at the station, when he walked through the doors and saw Harry slumped in a chair in the corner, alit by the bright cleanliness of it all; he signed Harry out, listened to the officer go on and on about the damage that had been caused and what a shame the young people of today’s society are, and when she was finished talking his ear off, inadvertently insulting him and his best friend, he walked toward Harry, tapped Harry on the shoulder to gain his attention.

And the look in Harry’s eyes ― they were blue-gray, by the way, like mischievous clouds before a lackluster storm, and Niall knows it’s because Harry’s wearing light cerulean beneath a black blazer ― was shattered, was broken, and Niall didn’t say anything, only reached for Harry’s hand and interlaced their fingers, dragging him out of the thick atmosphere of the police station and into the warmth, into the familiar comfort of a car they’ve both spent hours and hours and hours in.

And ― and it is worth it, you know, being late to work, because he and Harry talked, because he and Harry apologized, because he and Harry put whatever it is that’s tearing them apart behind them, because they’re attempting to gather each other up and hold one another together. Yeah ― yeah, reconciling and talking and hugging and making promises is so, so worth being late to a shitty job at the supermarket.

Yeah, it’s worth it. It’s worth it because Harry is worth it, because Harry is worth absolutely everything to Niall, platonically as well as romantically. Harry is the moon, and the stars and the sun and the planets and the flickering meteors and the winking asteroids and ― and yeah, Harry is everything.

Always has been, probably always will be, too.

He’s all that Niall wants ― wants, because he doesn’t need Harry, knows he doesn’t need Harry. However, he wants Harry so, so much.

He’s still not sure what to think, though. He’s mad at Louis for calling Harry out, mad at Liam for not having the good sense to talk Louis out of it, mad at Zayn for only ever coming around when shit is going down, mad at Lauren for taking Harry away from Niall before he even had Harry, mad at Harry for losing his temper in a public place, mad at himself for being most of the cause of it all.

Louis isn’t mad, though. At Harry, at least. He’s quite angry with the workers, with the cop that arrested Harry because, and Niall will quote this if need be, the “fucker with the beer belly wouldn’t quit being a dick and I do believe Liam bruised ― look at this bruise Liam left on my arm, that fucknut!”

Yeah, Louis isn’t mad, and neither are Liam and Zayn and Harry, either. They all are, collectively, pissed off at the arresting police officer, though. With good reason, too.

So it’s okay. It’s all kind of okay.

He jogs through the store, dodging shopping families and bypassing messy aisles and agitated workers; on his way to the break room at the back of the building, he runs into Abbigail, a six-foot-something Irish rose with ruby-like red hair and pine green eyes and a dusting of freckles across her face. She gives him a look ― a very pointed, ‘I caught you’ look that makes Niall’s knees knock together ― and Niall holds his hands up in surrender, sheepishly grins and steps back a bit because… well, because she’s six-foot-something with a deep, resounding voice and can probably tear him in two if she wanted to.

It’s not like he’s scared of her, though. Of course not. It’s just ― she’s older than him by several years, with two twin boys that are still teenagers, and he knows she’s stern, knows she can put a hard fear in him. He respects her immensely; she’s like a second mother to him, really.

“All right, Abbigail, you’ve caught me,” he says, shaking his head; she straightens up from restocking the shelves and crosses her arms, raising her brows in silent motion for Niall to elaborate. “My friend ― Harry got into some trouble, and I had to go help him out.”

She makes a face. “Harry Styles?” she asks, furrows her brows.

Niall nods.

“What’d he do?” Her voice is soft, tender, and maybe she isn’t mad at Niall for having to pick up his slack for a few hours because she knows how important Harry is to him.

Niall sighs, scratches at his hair; it was decent earlier, combed up and styled elegantly, now it’s flat and falling into his face from all the times he’s ran his hands through it in exhaustion, in worry and irritation and fright. “He ― He, um… _Fuck_ , he and Lou got into it at a café and the police was called and he rang me to pick him up ‘cause they wouldn’t let him go without an escort.” He shrugs, rubs at the dimple in his chin. “I mean, you’ve heard me talk about Harry. His temper is ―”

“Is hot,” Abbigail finishes for him, nodding her head and crossing her arms over her large bust. “You’ve mentioned it a few times. Is he all right?”

Niall blanches, tries to think up of a good reply because no, Harry is not okay. He’s not, and Niall knows he isn’t, but he’s not sure as to why Harry’s so suddenly down and out. And ― and it’s one of the worst feelings he’s ever experienced, you know, being aware that his best friend is falling apart but not so sure of the reason why he’s so abruptly shattering into little bitty pieces.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s _awful_.

“He’s feeling a bit odd,” Niall replies, slow and thoughtful, examining each word he allows to slip. “I mean, that’s kind of understandable, ya know? He’s not been picked up since ―” Niall stops, tries to remember the last time Harry was cuffed and carried off to the station, “― since that party last year when they had to shut down an entire street ‘cause a house caught fire.”

That was ― that was quite the party, all right? One Niall will never forget, that’s for sure.

“Ah, yes. I remember that party.” Abbigail nods, picks at her lips; she doesn’t wear makeup, and even if she does she wouldn’t need it because her complexion is even in a way that people only dream of. Niall himself has experimented with makeup a few times, but found that it’s not something he’s rather fond of. He wouldn’t mind having a beautiful, solid skin color like hers instead of his uneven tone. “My brother was picked up that night, too, though for a totally different reason.”

Once she’s finished speaking, Niall raises an inquisitive brow; hell, he’s more or less spilling his secrets, and he figures Abbigail may as well let him in on her life, too. He’s already late ― clocking in a few minutes later won’t make too much of a difference. He already knows he’s going to take have to work abnormally late tonight, anyway.

She grins, shakes her head and rolls his eyes. “It’s funny, really, ‘cause he wasn’t even at that party,” she begins, and the smile on her face is kind of infectious, and Niall’s glad to be grinning after the ordeal earlier. “And he… he ― oh, bloody hell, he was literally stood on the roof of an Addison Lee they stole and he was surfing down the road and the idiot fell off in front of the police station.”

Holy shit. _Holy shit_ ― Abbigail’s brother is a wild beast.

“Damn, babe.” Niall grins, shakes his head ― this kid is a legend, and he kind of wants to meet him to get his autograph. “He’s really ―”

“Niall Horan!”

 _Shit_. _Oh, shit_.

With a heavy heart and pale face and shaking fingers, Niall pivots on his heel and meets his boss’s eyes, and to say he’s not intimidated by the man would be a lie. His boss ― Allan is his name, by the way ― is taller than him, taller than Harry, with thick red hair and dark brown eyes and pasty white skin; his arms are huge and his voice is deep and his fingers are meaty, and Niall’s not small by no means, nor has he ever been daunted by another person before, but Allan is a whole different story.

Niall’s not scared of the man, per se, but the fact that Allan more or less holds Niall’s immediate future in his hands is a very unsettling thought to have.

“Hi ― hello, sir,” Niall greets, and it’s quite humorous, in a way, because his face has softened and his voice deepens a few octaves; Abbigail’s behind him, smothering her laughter, and he’s never wanted to kick anybody as hard as he wants to her at the moment.

“You’re late.”

Well, duh.

“Uh ― yes, sir, I am,” Niall agrees, nods, puts his hands behind his back and stands up straight, knotting his fingers together and squeezing tight, tight, tight. “And… I’m really very sorry for that, sir.”

“Why?” Allan crosses his arms, and they’re big, too, so they’re bulging, and Niall’s not scared but he’s kind of scared at the same time. “Why are you two and a half hours late?”

Niall sighs, shuts his eyes and opens them quickly. “My friend got into some trouble and I had to help him out, is all.” He swallows, blinks once, twice, three times, and Allan is still a large wall in front of him that he knows he’ll probably never be able to break down. “I’m very sorry, sir. Again, I’m sorry. But I had to help him out; he’s my… he’s my best friend.”

“Is he going to help you out now that you’ve got no job?”

_What?_

“What the fuck?” Niall exclaims; Abbigail gasps and Allan’s eyes widen and Niall’s really confused, really pissed. “What the fuck, Allan?”

Allan’s face reddens, but Niall’s vision is colored with crimson and he’s little, he’s smaller, but he’s fierce and there’s a hell of a lot more people at this shitty supermarket that like him better than Allan. “You will not ―”

“Shut up, asslick,” Niall cuts him off, rolls his eyes; he’s on fire, burning from the inside out, and it’s like all the stress, all the sleepless nights and fitful dreams and dirty emotions are catching up to him because he’s about to implode, and it feels good. It feels so fucking good. “I’ve worked here for six months ― _six goddamn months_. And yeah, I get that six months isn’t a long time, but in that time, I’ve not been late once. _Once_ , Allan. I’ve come to work early even, and I’ve covered your ass and all these other motherfuckers, too. And now that I’m late one time ― _one_ _bloody_ _time_ ― you’re going to fire me?”

Allan gulps. “I ―”

“Don’t.” Niall holds his hands up, grabs at the nametag that’s clipped to his ugly red polo and jerks it off, throwing it in Allan’s face. “Fuck you, and have a Merry Christmas.”

-

“You _did not_ do that!”

Niall nods, slumps his shoulders and wraps his hands around the warm cup of tea Grace fixed him after he called her over to discuss the wildness of the day. “I did,” he replies, offering her a shy grin. “I did, and I’m proud of it. That ass deserves a taste of his own medicine.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s you who gave it to him, then.” She grins, shakes her head and sips at her own tea ― and it’s iced, by the way, because she likes that, even when it’s miserably cold and rainy outside, and how she can stand it, Niall doesn’t know, though he respects her toughness nonetheless. “And while I’m very, very proud of you, love, I just have to ask ― what are you going to do now?”

Niall’s grin broadens. “I’ve not told you about Sal, have I?”

Her eyes widen, and she gasps, reaching out to slap playfully at his arm. “You have _not_ , Niall Horan,” she scoffs, rolls her eyes and sets her mug down, adjusting the cream-colored sweater she’s decided to wear today ― and she looks cute, with her light sweater and dark jeans and black boots and messy hair. “Now, spill it. I’m ready.”

“The day I moved in, I got a call from a man named Sal Piersant, and as it happens, he’s the curator at the National Gallery Museum in Trafalgar Square,” Niall announces, and he’s proud, full of the sticky elation of being honored, of being recognized for his love and appreciation of art, both modern and ancient ― respect the old school and make room for the new, as his mum has always said. “He wants me to come and interview for a tour guide through the ancient Greek and Roman art exhibitions.”

“My goodness, Niall, that’s absolutely great!” Grace moves forward then, wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close, hugs him tight; she smells like strawberries and honeysuckle, and her laughter is contagious and he’s chuckling lightly into her neck as he embraces her back. “How did all of this come about?”

Niall pulls back, and the grin on his face is large, is thick, and it’s hurting his cheeks but he doesn’t care ― he doesn’t care because there is so, so much to be happy about right now.

“A few weeks ago, when I went with Harry to buy Lauren’s ring for Christmas, we met a man named Shannon,” Niall replies, and he’s quite glad that store was picked, elated that Shannon was the employee to help him and Harry that day. “And while Harry was being checked out, he and I discussed how neat it was that jewelry designers today are using ancient art as inspiration for their lines of rings and necklaces and whatever else they make. And he and Sal are good friends ― Sal’s married to Shannon’s aunt, I think ― and an opening came up at the museum and Shannon recommended me, and… and yeah.” Niall’s face hurts now, but it’s the best kind of pain he reckons he’s ever felt. “I’m ― I’m gonna make it, Gracie.”

She beams ― she beams, and her dark eyes are alight with happiness, with wicked joy, and she reaffirms her grip on Niall’s neck and giggles adoringly in his ear. “You’re gonna make it, Ni,” she says, repeats, and it feels good to know that others have faith in Niall where he happens to fall short. “You’re gonna make it!”

He nods, shut his eyes and pulls her close; he’s got nothing to say, nothing to repeat or announce now because it’s all been spoken, all been put out in the open. And that feels so, so _good_.

There’s a throat being cleared then, and Niall jerks away, looks over his shoulder and feels his elation fall because he really did not expect them to show up.

“Oh.” Lauren’s mouth is wide and Harry’s eyes are on fire, and Niall feels big and little all at once. “We ― we could come back later, if now isn’t a good time.”

Niall sighs, pulls away from Grace’s hold and plasters on a smile he hopes doesn’t look as fake as it feels; he really needs to remember to start locking the door to avoid viscid situations such as this one, but it’s already here and he can’t hide from it now.


	21. twenty-one

Niall said yes.

Niall said yes, and he really, really needs to learn how to start saying no ― how to start saying fuck no.

Because shopping with Harry is a disaster and always has been, and shopping with Lauren is okay because there’s usually loads of food involved in compensation for tagging along with her, and shopping with Grace is something Niall’s not ever experienced before, and shopping by himself is absolute shit because his eyes are bigger than his stomach and brain, and ― and surely with the four of them together, traipsing through the rather-congested mall and hunting down a few bargains here and there for gifts isn’t going to be good.

It can’t be good at all. Never mind that it’s only a week and a half till Christmas and the mall is nearly packed to the brims with late-minute shoppers trying to get ahead of the late-late-minute shoppers ― this is not going to be good at all.

At least Niall’s not suffering by his lonesome, though. Harry looks pretty pissed, fairly irritated and very, very strained, as well.

“You all right, H?” Niall asks, nudges at Harry’s shoulder; Grace and Lauren are a bit ahead of them, and it’s quite cool, really, because the two of them have hit it off splendidly, and Niall’s not exactly surprised because Grace is a masterpiece and Lauren is a gem, and it only makes sense for two of his favorite girls to like one another, he thinks. “You seem a bit off.”

“I’m just ―” Harry tries, cuts himself off and shakes his head; he moves his hand up to run it through his hair, but he’s pulled it back into a messy, sloppy bun during the ride over, and when he remembers he drops his arm back by his side with a growl of displeasure. “I mean ― fuck, shit ― I’m fine. I am _fine_. I’m all right.”

Niall nods, purses his lips and takes a step away from Harry, moves to the left as much as he can in the crowded mall ― because Harry is in this colorful bubble of red and maroon and pink that’s streaked and spotted with black, and Niall doesn’t want to upset him even more than he already seems to be. After all, it’s been a long day for both of them, and a fight, an argument, would only cause their relationship to relapse.

And they made progress today. They made loads of progress ― because Harry wouldn’t shut up, because he talked about everything and anything and nothing and something. He talked about how he accidentally found Lauren’s stash of Christmas presents, about how he’s put in so many overtime hours these past few weeks he could probably take an entire month off and not have to worry about his dwindling account, about how he wants to take a trip to India to see the temples he’s newly amazed by, about how he’s beginning to dislike every song on the radio because they’re all ignorantly repetitive and catchy in a rude and unbecoming sense, about how he’s broken five cups and three glass baking pans attempting to cook for himself since Niall’s been gone.

Niall talked, too. He talked about how weird it is living on his own, about how he likes the quietness of loneliness when he’s trying to sleep, about how he’s tried out a few new recipes ― “And would you like them? ‘Cause I think you’d prob’ly enjoy the pan-cooked summer squash thingy with tomatoes and basil and bell peppers since you’ve been into the vegan side of things lately,” and, “That sounds better than sex. Fuck. Hold on and I’ll get you a pen to write it down, baby,” ― about how he’s got a new affinity for all things ZZ Top and KISS, about how he’s learned to like iced sweet tea, about how he’s discovered he’s quite awful at decorating.

They also talked about the change of not being with one another, too. They mulled over the quietness, the loneliness, the dankness that seems to hang heavy on their shoulders when they’re home and it’s just them and nobody else when they’ve been together for years.

But it’s good. That they’re away from one another, that is. It’s good because Harry said so, because Niall agreed, because they both know if Niall wouldn’t have gotten out when he did, there’s no definite answer to what would have happened.

Everything’s not fixed. There’s still loads ― and loads and loads and _loads_ ― that Niall and Harry need to sort out with one another. Everything isn’t fixed, no, but it’s all just a little bit better.

“Have you talked to Lauren?” Niall asks, and it’s not his business, really, but he’s a nosey little shit and he’s not ashamed of it, either.

Harry shakes his head. “Not yet,” he replies, closing the bit of space that Niall’s created between them; their shoulders bump and their arms sway in tune, and Harry’s fingers are tickling the back of Niall’s hand every time they step. And the shivers that are running up and down Niall’s spine kind of match the gooseflesh Niall can see rising on Harry’s forearms. “She’ll find out one way or another, and I really don’t want to be the one to let the cat out of the bag to ruin her happiness, ya know?”

Ah, that makes sense then. If Lauren had any mind of the trials of today, she would not have gathered Harry and Niall and Grace up with her to hit a few stores before the mall closes in a few hours.

At least Niall doesn’t have to get up early tomorrow. One perk of not having a job is being able to sleep in. _Ha_.

Harry turns his head, gives Niall a simmering, hot look, and Niall tries hard ― so, _so hard_ ― to not let his eyes drop to Harry’s baby pink lips, to not stare at the wetness his tongue has left behind. Harry’s a great kisser ― Niall already knew that, even before Harry shoved himself atop Niall when he wasn’t wanted ― and he can’t help but think about how nice it would be to have Harry’s lips on his, to allow Harry’s mouth to move and suck and bite and lick across his, into his, with his.

When Harry talks, it’s kind of like watching an acclaimed artist paint their next blockbuster hit, in a way that it’s sensual and deep and intimate. Harry’s mouth is large, and his lips are big and thin and pretty, and the way his tongue moves as he speaks, as he forms words that curl around consonants and dance with vowels makes Niall wonder if he’s the only one who appreciates all forms of art; he likes to touch them, too, with his fingers as he’s going on and on about something he’s passionate for, about something he vivaciously enjoys conversing over.

Harry’s a work of art, and Niall just wants to feel his lips once ― one time is all he wants, is all he needs, is all he’ll ask for because Harry isn’t his to have.

“What’s with you and that girl?” Harry asks, and his tone is hard-edged and he seems angry, sounds angry when he doesn’t have the right nor reason to be.

“Gracie?” Niall balks, makes sure it’s her Harry’s very nearly throwing a fit over. His temper has already exploded once today and he’s had to visit a jail cell, and Niall really doesn’t wish to see what would happen should it get out of hand again. “She’s my neighbor, Harry.”

“She’s the girl from the pub.”

Niall nods, lets out a sheepish smile from the memory; he’s not exactly sure what happened that night, really, but he knows he enjoyed himself quite a bit. And that’s all that matters, right?

“She’s been very nice to me, Harry,” Niall adds, reassures Harry’s apparent worry. “She’s a great person, and a wonderful friend, and I’m really very glad to have been put in the same building as her.”

“There’s nothing going on between you and her?” Harry asks, rushes the words out of his pretty mouth, and Niall’s hit with a wall of confusion because no, there’s not, and even if there was, it’s not really any of Harry’s business who Niall decides to have romantic relations with. “Like, you and her have not fucked?”

“Holy shit!” Niall blanches, veers away from Harry and slams into a short, slim woman with bags hanging off her arms. He apologizes swiftly, over and over, and she nods, smiles up at him before skirting away. “Hell’s teeth, Harry, give me a warning, won’t ya? And no, ya horny bastard, Grace and I haven’t done anything like that, and I don’t really want to, either.”

Harry lets out a laugh ― Harry lets out a laugh, and they’re surrounded by tons of people and Grace and Lauren are giggling about something or another a few feet ahead and there’s so much noise, so much racket, but Niall only has ears for Harry.

“Why not?” Harry asks, and his eyes are sparkling as he reaches out, grabs at the sleeve of Niall’s jacket and pulls him close, and now they’re rubbing against one another, and it’s gotten quite a bit hotter, quite a bit thicker in the mall. “She’s a very beautiful girl, and you two seem to have really hit it off.”

Harry’s playing at something, and Niall’s not sure what.

Niall shakes his head, hides his face in Harry’s neck to muffle the chuckles that are coming out of his lips; Grace is gorgeous, yes, and she could make any person get down on their knees for her, yeah, but Niall isn’t attracted to her and she’s not in the looking to grab him up, either. They’re perfectly fine with being friends ― _just_ friends.

Besides, Niall wants Harry, and he’s not exactly holding out for Harry, per se, but he isn’t looking for anybody else to fill that void because ― because Harry is irreplaceable.

“She’s not the person I’m interested in.”

“Oh?” Harry nudges his shoulder, giving Niall an inquisitive, steady look that has Niall’s heart absolutely racing. “Who is it that’s got your ―”

He’s cut off then by his stomach, and it’s a loud growl, an empty howl, that garners the attention of quite a few bystanders and a smothered laugh from Niall and a wide-eyed, sheepish expression from Harry.

“When’s the last time you ate, H?” Niall asks, chuckles, and he’s really, really glad this situation has risen because he doesn’t want to let Harry in on his love life when Harry _is_ his love life.

Harry shrugs. “I think… I think I ate lunch yesterday but skipped dinner, and I’ve not eaten today yet.”

“Oh.” Niall’s brows knit, and he doesn’t want to think of the reason why Harry’s not eaten since yesterday at noon. “Lauren! Gracie!” They turn to look at him and Harry, and they’re both a picture of ebony and ivory beauty that Niall wants to photograph so he can paint a portrait, so he can show them how they look in his eyes. “We’re gonna go find something to eat, all right? We’ll meet back up with you when we’re finished.”

They nod; Gracie gives Niall a thumbs-up and Lauren blows a kiss at Harry, who catches it and stuffs it in his pocket ― and it’s cute, but Harry usually snatches it and puts it to his lips, though Niall refuses to dwell on the reason he’s suddenly saving it for later.

Niall moves his shoulder, nudges Harry to the right, and they’re swimming through a thick crowd that’s going every which way, and Niall doesn’t like it when people are surrounding him on either side and he knows ― he knows Harry hates the congestion, hates the density of the place because it makes him anxious and apprehensive.

“What sounds good?” he asks, tries to take Harry’s mind off the heaviness of the flow they’re fighting against.

Harry shrugs. “You.”

Niall turns red, bites his lip and moves his face to the side to hide a blush because Harry shouldn’t be saying that ― holy fuck, _Harry should not be saying stuff like that_. In public, especially; hiding a hard-on is difficult enough at home, but in a very populated mall it’s damn near impossible.

“Be serious, Harry.”

“I was.” He turns his head, meets Niall’s eyes; Harry’s wearing a white shirt now, and it’s the Rolling Stones tee he bought after a concert one night, and it’s been washed and worn so many times it’s faded out but it still looks abnormally amazing. Harry can pull of anything. “Can I… Can I hold your hand, Niall? The ― the crowd is kind of making me feel weird.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay. You can hold my hand.”

Niall gulps, wets his lips; Harry’s hand moves out and he finds Niall’s, and their fingers entangle as their eyes meet and hold, and Niall’s not going to think about how pretty Harry’s gray-green eyes are, about how careful Harry’s grip is on his fingers, about how delicate Harry’s gentle smile is, about how gorgeous Harry’s curly flyaway tendrils are, about how beautiful Harry’s bumpy and unshaven face is.

He’s just going to focus on the budding flowers in his tummy that Harry’s touch is planting because that’s the one thing that’s keeping his feet on the ground.

-

“I cannot believe this has happened,” Harry grunts, and he’s annoyed and tired and angry and still hungry as his fingers move furiously on his shirt, and Niall wants to help but he’s afraid if he tries he’s only going to make it worse. “I can’t believe I’ve ruined my favorite shirt. And I can’t believe that little boy wasn’t with his mum or somebody.”

Niall sighs, crosses his arms and rolls his eyes as he watches Harry scrub and scrub and scrub at the dark-colored chocolate stain on his shirt. On their way to the food court, they ran into a little boy with a chocolate-dipped vanilla cone, and somehow the ice cream wound up being smashed into Harry’s shirt, and after a screaming and crying and yelling fit ― all of which came from Harry, mind you, because he’s a child sometimes and he can’t control himself ― Niall was able to tug Harry into a family restroom with a locked door to calm himself down and clean up.

And now he’s stood in a large, freshly-washed restroom with Harry, whose face is red as he works the stain further into the shirt, whose tummy is kind of tan and toned and very, very hard to not stare at, whose lips are pressed and brows are furrowed and fingers are white-knuckled in aggravation and exhaustion.

“It’s gonna be all right, Harry,” Niall replies, and it’s like he’s a broken record because that’s all he’s been saying for the last twenty minutes. “You’re scrubbing it in right now and making it worse. If you’ll just calm down and relax, and realize that we can get the stain out at home, you’ll be okay.”

Harry groans, throws his head back and drops the hem of his shirt and slings the wet paper towel he was using to the side. “I really like this shirt, Ni,” he whines, complains and rubs at his eyes pitifully, and he’s had such a wild day it’s a wonder he’s not broken down completely yet. “And I ― I just don’t want it to be messed up.”

“I got fired today.”

Harry blinks, situates his head and meets Niall’s gaze, and his eyes are wide but there’s a smile on Niall’s face and maybe this isn’t a very smart idea but he doesn’t want Harry to mope about more than he should. “ _What_?”

Niall nods. “I got fired today,” he repeats, and his smile turns into a full-blown chuckle that has Harry’s eyes widening in shock. “I also mouthed off a bit to my boss and told him to fuck off quite a few times.”

“Holy shit.” Harry shakes his head, and his eyes are impossibly wider than they were before, and it’s literally quite comical to be in a locked restroom with the person he loves talking about things such as getting fired and cursing out his ex-boss. “Holy shit, Niall. What’re ― what are you going to do?”

“I got a call from the curator of the National Gallery Museum,” he announces, and it was amazing letting Grace in on the secret, yes, but telling Harry ― showing Harry that he can make it, that he’s _going_ to make it even though the odds are stacked against him, lights a fire in his stomach that rages and billows and licks at everything he is. “He wants me to come in January second for an interview to be a tour guide through the ancient Roman and Greek exhibit.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Harry’s mouth is open and his eyes are large ― so, so _wide_ ― and his face is red and he looks every bit as proud as Niall feels. “You’re not joking ‘round, are you?”

Niall shakes his head, and he can’t stop smiling because Harry’s smiling. “No, Harry. I’m telling the truth.”

“Oh my God.” Harry rushes forward then, slinging his arms around Niall’s waist and grabbing Niall up in a big hug that makes Niall’s feet leave the ground and his hands grab at Harry’s shoulders, and it’s a messy embrace that has the both of them cackling with pride and joy. “Oh my God!”

Harry spins Niall then, around and around and around, and they’re in a restroom and they’re dancing and hugging and laughing and it’s nice, so nice and gentle and moving and happy, that it only makes sense for Harry to set Niall down after they’ve sobered up, for Harry to push Niall against the wall, for Harry to tip Niall’s chin up, for Harry to put his mouth to Niall’s softly, wetly, willingly, and kiss him like it’s the first time all over again.

 

 

 

 


	22. twenty-two

What is he doing, what is he doing, _what is he doing_?

He’s kissing Niall. Again. He’s kissing Niall.

_I’m kissing Niall._

Holy shit _― he’s kissing Niall_.

And ― and Niall’s kissing him, too.

Niall’s cheeks are hot and soft in Harry’s hands, and his lips are gentle and wet and tender as they move, as they open for Harry to allow his tongue inside, and he tastes good _, so good_ , and Harry never wants to stop, never wants to not be touching Niall. He wants to kiss Niall over and over ― and over and over and over till he gets his fix, till he doesn’t crave the feel of Niall’s syrupy-sweetness, till the desire in his body doesn’t make his bones ache and his heart cry and his soul simmer.

The thing is, though, Harry’s not sure if he’ll ever be satisfied because Niall tastes too good, feels too good, sounds too good, looks too good to ever be overused, to ever be ordinary, and it’s never crossed Harry’s mind to kiss Niall, never crossed Harry’s mind to take Niall by the face and hold him still so Harry can lick into his mouth and make himself at home.

_He’s kissing Niall._

He wonders if it has crossed Niall’s mind, wonders if the thought of kissing him has kept Niall up in the dark of the night with sweaty legs and a burning body and a dry mouth as he twists and arches and bucks and tries to find some sort of mediocre release between the sheets ― because _bloody fuck_ , that’s all Harry is thinking about now.

He’s thinking about Niall’s body, beneath the layers of clothes he’s wearing, thinking about Niall’s tufts of chest hair and Niall’s freckles and Niall’s unevenly-colored skin and Niall’s lumps and Niall’s rolls and Niall’s awkward angles; he’s thinking about Niall’s fleshy hips and thick thighs and adorable tummy and his hairy legs and his pink stretch marks.

Niall’s delicious. Niall’s delicious, and Harry wants to eat him up.

_He’s kissing Niall._

The guilt hasn’t risen yet, hasn’t set in for Harry, hasn’t created a stone of distaste in the pit of his stomach, hasn’t formed a lump in his throat that threatens to choke off his precious air; he’s flicking his tongue along the backs of Niall’s front teeth, still opening his mouth wider to accommodate Niall’s fresh need, still swallowing the juicy noises Niall is allowing ― Harry doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to _ever_ stop.

His ruined shirt doesn’t matter, his fines and temper doesn’t matter, his horrible communications skill don’t matter, his lack of communication with his family doesn’t matter, his overpriced Christmas gifts to his friends doesn’t matter, his mistakes and transgressions and ignorant moments don’t matter, his empty house doesn’t matter, his nasty emotions and sticky feelings doesn’t matter, his loyal girlfriend doesn’t matter ― none of it matters because Niall is _here_ , because Niall is in his hands and in his heart and in his mouth and in his mind, and nothing can take away the importance of being better, of being good for Niall.

It’s for Niall. Being good, being better ― it’s Harry’s choice, but it’s for Niall, because of Niall.

Because Niall is all that matters. At the moment, when it comes to Niall, he’s _all_ that matters.

“Harry,” Niall says, moans, tries to slur out against Harry’s viscid mouth; he puts his hands to Harry’s chest and shoves, breaking their kiss, but he only lets Harry get so far before he’s fisting his hands in Harry’s shirt and keeping him close, tugging him till their chests are flush and their legs are tangled. “Harry, we can’t ―”

“We can, we can, we can,” Harry cuts Niall off, says the words over and over and over as his thumbs rub at the purple-colored skin beneath Niall’s hooded eyes ― proof of his exhaustion, of his lack of sleep ― and they’re beautiful right now, so beautiful and vivid and bright and shiny, and Harry doesn’t understand how he’s never noticed Niall’s rarity before because he is somebody you photograph, somebody you paint and sculpt and mold and form till the end of time. “Give me more, baby. I want _more_.”

And ― and Niall definitely gives him more.

It’s like a fire inside Niall has been lit, like the flames of passion have been stoked till the embers burned hot enough to ignite again because Niall is taking the lead ― Niall is grabbing Harry’s face with force, digging his blunt nails into Harry’s cheeks and pulling till their noses are bumping, till their breath is mingling, till their lips are touching, till their heat is mixing and the gooseflesh on their skin is giving way to the dampness of covert intimacy.

And Niall’s fire ― that passion, that burn, that drive, that glimmer and streak of hope, of faith and love and will ― makes Harry feel like he’s going down in flames.

What a way to go.

Niall arches off the wall, presses their chest together and moves his hands up to Harry’s hair, where he finds the elastic band that’s keeping the wild mess at bay and tugs at it till it gives loose, till it breaks, till it makes a strange noise and falls to the ground to be stomped on by their feet, till Harry’s tendrils are a waterfall of cherry-brown ringlets that Niall pushes back and combs through, getting caught in the snarls and sucking Harry’s grunts of pain into his own mouth.

“You’re pretty, Harry,” Niall murmurs, pulls his mouth away to take a quick breath; it’s warm, too, the air that Niall’s puffing against his wet lips, and Harry’s feeling lightning in his blood and thunder in his heart and torrential downpour in his mind. “Fuck, you are so _pretty_.”

Harry’s red ― Harry’s red, and his face is burning and his body is burning and his mind is burning and his soul is burning and his groin is burning. He’s burning all over, inside and out, for Niall ― because Niall is total fire, is the bluest of blue flames, the bluest of blue eyes, is hot and boiling and sticky to the touch and beautiful to the eyes and hard on the heart.

And Harry loves it. Harry loves Niall’s hotness, loves his redness, loves his ability to make Harry feel like he’s burning, like he’s a smoldering mess of coals or a lake of lava or a charred forest floor.

“You have no idea, baby.” Harry shakes his head, moves one thumb low, gliding it across Niall’s thick, damp bottom lip; Niall’s tongue darts out, touches the tip of Harry’s finger, teasing the nerves there till Harry presses it inside Niall’s mouth with a whimper of unadulterated fervor, and Niall begins to suck and bite, frenzied and frazzled and fucking _fine_. Shivers are dancing up and down Harry’s back, causing him to shudder and quake, but he’s not cold ― he’s not cold because Niall is hot, is so fucking _hot_ , if he’s with Niall, he’ll never be chilled, never be bitter. “You have no fucking idea.”

Harry’s hands drop to Niall’s thighs then, and he wraps his fingers around the fleshy skin there, squeezes and squeezes and squeezes till Niall sobs, till Niall whimpers from the roughness and thrusts his hips into Harry’s; he’s pushing at Harry then, pressing at Harry’s shoulders and backing him up, and his tailbone collides with the white marble counter and his only instinct is to hop up, is to open his legs wide and scoot to the edge and grab at Niall’s hair and jerk him in till they’re kissing, till they’re suckling one another’s tongues and biting at each other’s lips with a renewed sense of excited eagerness.

Again and again, over and over, Harry’s tongue laps at Niall’s lips and Niall’s fingers curl and twine and tug and pull at Harry’s hair. Their noises are slick and drizzling as they fall from their mouths, as they ink themselves on the too-white walls of the restroom, and it’s odd to be having something as hot, something as amazing and electric as a heated make out session in a fucking _toilet_ , of all things, but Harry doesn’t care.

Harry doesn’t care ― because Niall is all that matters. He’s all that matters, okay?

_Niall’s all that matters._

“Harry.” Niall rears back then, and there’s a bridge of saliva that connects their lips; Niall moves his mouth and it breaks, falls to land on Harry’s shirt, and his eyes are crossed as he watches it soak in, as he watches the pretty bubbles fade away, and the congestion in his stomach is hard to describe because the words have not been invented yet. “Harry, we can’t be doing this.”

“Why?” Harry asks, and it’s a stupid answer because he knows why. He knows why, has known why, will always know why, but he doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to talk about it.

He just wants Niall. He only wants Niall now, and nothing else ― he doesn’t want anger, doesn’t want nastiness and depression and tears and sad falsity, doesn’t want Lauren.

Harry doesn’t want Lauren because he wants Niall. Right now, that this very moment, Harry does not want Lauren because all he needs, all he desires, is Niall. Is that too much to ask?

He doesn’t deserve Niall, though; doesn’t deserve a prince, a precious jewel, a sunflower in a field of haunted death. He doesn’t deserve Niall’s touch or Niall’s kisses or Niall’s noises ― he doesn’t deserve anything at all.

But he wants it. Oh, God, he wants it _so bad_.

“Why, Niall?” he asks again ― and he’ll ask it over and over and over if he has to, if that’s what it takes for Niall to believe that everything they’re doing, that everything they’re going to do, is _okay_.

It’s okay because Harry wants Niall.

And Niall wants Harry, too, doesn’t he?

It’s not bad, then. If Harry wants Niall and Niall wants Harry, and everything is consensual, it’s not bad ― it’s not a bad thing to want somebody you know you can’t have as long as they know that nobody else can have them.

Is it?

Niall’s hands move to Harry’s waist; his fingers lift Harry’s shirt, curl through the belt loops at the top of his jeans, and he uses that as leverage to pull Harry closer, to move him till half of his bum is hanging off the countertop and all he can do is wrap his legs around Niall’s waist, locking his feet together and keeping their bodies meshed impossibly so.

And it feels good, too, to touch Niall like this, to be touched by Niall like this. Harry won’t ever get used to it, won’t ever tire from it.

“Niall? Niall, _please_ ―”

“Shut up.” Niall shakes his head, bucks his hips, and ― and fuck, he’s hard; half-hard, at least, and Harry is, too, and shit, bloody hell, they’re going to do this, aren’t they? They’re going to do it. They’re going to go at it like two horny teenagers in the locker room after a strenuous practice at school, aren’t they? “Just stop, Harry. _Just stop_.”

Harry makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat, and it echoes around the restroom as Niall puts their lips together again, as Niall slips his tongue into Harry’s mouth and twirls the muscles together, over and over and over, and it’s a dance of muscles, of hips, of hands and fingers and chests and hearts as they move with one another in perfect rhythm, perfect harmony, perfect consistency.

Niall’s palms are large and heavy on Harry’s back as they slip beneath Harry’s shirt to tickle at the sweat-slick skin, and Harry’s fingers are fierce as he claws at Niall’s jacket, as he rips the zip and shoves it aside as much as he can, as he grapples for the top buttons of Niall’s shirt and shakily, numbly, unsnaps the pearls till Niall’s chest is bare and Harry can roam all over it with needy touches.

He tears his mouth from Niall’s, and this time, instead of letting the bridge of saliva go to waste, Harry sucks it up, swallows it down like it’s the best thing he’s ever had; he puts his lips to Niall’s clavicle, flicks his tongue on the sharp bone, nipping just enough to bring the blush of blood to the surface as he enjoys the taste of sweat, of spice and soap.

“Oh, wow,” Niall gasps, sighs; his hands are jerking Harry’s shirt up and his fingers are scratching bluntly along the ridged bumps of Harry’s spine and it’s making Harry’s pleasure mount till it’s very near toppling over. Their hips are hard and their pants are equally tight as they bump against one another, as they grind and roll and undulate and circle, and Harry’s not got off by dry humping alone in so long, has learned to control himself through the years, but he isn’t sure if he can keep himself from blowing his load when it comes to Niall because Niall is an entire universe wrapped up in a pretty, blue-eyed boy with a fire that’ll burn forever. “Oh, _Harry_.”

Harry smirks, flops his tongue out and licks a stripe from Niall’s bared shoulder to the top of his collarbone. He wraps his lips around the protruding bone, swirls his tongue around it before sucking ― and sucking and sucking and sucking till Niall’s whining, till Niall’s nails are burning as they rake across Harry’s back, till Niall’s hips are stuttering and he’s moaning and sobbing and jerking and coming and coming and _coming_.

Harry bites down hard, licks away the pain and relishes the prick of blood that stings his tongue as he ruins his underwear ― if he can’t have Niall, he’s going to make damn sure the world knows it can’t have Niall, either.

-

“Grace is a nice girl, don’t you think?”

“Hmm?” Harry hums, shuts the door once Lauren walks through and flicks the lock since she’s going to be staying the night; it’s late, and the blanket of snow on the ground isn’t safe to drive on till it’s treated, and he doesn’t want to jeopardize her life in any way. “What’d you say, sweetheart?”

She turns around, flashes Harry a gorgeous smile that’s makeup-free as she flips on the light and continues her way through the house, toward the back room where she’s been ― not so secretly ― hiding her Christmas gifts for everyone.

“I said I think Grace is a very sweet girl,” she calls from down the corridor and Harry sighs, runs his hands through his hair and picks at the crotch of his jeans; the stickiness of his cum is dirty and cold, but the reminder is warm and clean, and he’d rather not chitchat about Grace when all he wants is to take a long, scalding shower so he can tug out another orgasm or two. After all, Niall’s scratches on his back are still smarting, and it’s a sexy reminder at how talented Niall is with his tongue for somebody who’s never had a steady lover. “Don’t you think so?”

Harry sighs, kicks his boots off and makes his way toward the living room. “I think so, yeah,” he yells in reply as he falls onto the couch, limp and pliant and ready to dream about Niall ― and _only_ Niall, it seems, because he’s the one thing Harry can’t take his mind off of. “She’s a spitfire, though. Got a mouth that can burn you to the bone.”

“You think so?”

Harry nods, bites his lip as he recalls the heated exchange he and Grace shared a few days ago. “I know so.”

“She’s the girl that was with Niall the day he moved out,” Lauren announces, and she’s stating facts the both of them know; there’s a noise, a loud bang, and it’s followed by her saying ‘fuck’ as loud as she can, which brings a grin to Harry’s swollen lips as he swipes a hand over his face because Lauren is a very successful and busy woman, yes, but she’s been around Harry and the boys a bit too long now. “You never told me where you went when you stormed off that day, either. I was worried till you came back.”

“I went to Niall’s.”

And that’s the trip that started everything, isn’t it?

“You met her then?” Lauren asks, and there’s another questionable noise, and ― and what the hell is she doing? Trying to knock down a wall?

Harry combs his hand through his hair, finds a knot Niall’s quick fingers left behind and works to brush it out. “Yeah, I did,” he calls, reckons it’s best to let her think he and Grace never met before, and it’s a hassle yelling, really, but he doesn’t want to get up and march back there, and besides, even if he did, Lauren would shoo him away, no doubt. “She’s quite the character.”

“That worked out well, then, didn’t it?”

It didn’t. _Did it?_

Harry looks down at his jeans, at the crotch, and there’s a tiny dark spot of pleasure he’s meticulously hidden from Lauren and Grace the rest of the evening, and Niall has a matching one, too, and ― and yeah, it did work out well, huh?

He grins. _It did_.

“Babe, I’ll talk to you when you’re back in here, all right?”

Her reply is instantaneous. “M’kay!”

And Harry’s left, then, in silence to simmer and think about what has happened, about what he and Niall have done. It felt otherworldly at the time, full of fireworks and exploding supernovas and wild colors and wicked words, and now that it’s over ― now that there’s cum crusted to his underwear, irritating his pubic hair, the sensations are gone but the emotions are still there.

The emotions are still as strong as ever, as bright and vivid and full of fire as they were before, as they were when Harry asked Niall to try on Lauren’s ring ―

Oh. _Oh, fuck_. The ring.

Harry’s eyes are wide and his hands are shaking and his heart is cold and the warmth, the heat, the fire Niall created in his stomach is leaving, is being doused by Lauren’s water, and he can’t do this. The ring is freezing his mind, is biting at his heart, and _he can’t do this._

He can’t, he can’t _, he can’t_.

“Lauren!”


	23. twenty-three

It’s the twenty-second of December; Louis’s birthday is in two days, Christmas is in three, and Niall can still feel Harry’s touch, can still taste Harry’s tongue, can still see Harry’s face as he came, as he moaned and whined and sobbed and bit at Niall’s skin to keep his insanity at bay, can still hear Harry’s words just as good today as he could five days ago, really.

And it’s not like their kiss ― and the wild, aimless bit of dry humping and rough touches and desperate promises they participated in and made, as well ― has kept Niall up, has taken away precious moments of sleep. If anything, the kiss has helped Niall sleep more, has helped Niall rest better in a big, empty bed that’s in a large, desolate flat; his dreams are cozy and warm and happy, and the darkness around his mind is a nasty memory that lingers on his tongue like Harry’s taste.

It’s there, but it’s gone. It’s there, and it’ll always be there, even when it’s gone.

Niall got what he wanted, though. He finally got a piece of Harry ― and whether it be of his heart or of his desire, unanimously large or itty bitty, Niall can’t tell you. Niall can’t tell you because he doesn’t care ― he can’t tell you why, can’t tell you how, can’t tell you when Harry developed some sort of sticky feeling for him because he doesn’t care.

He got Harry ― he got a small portion of all that Harry Styles is, of all that he was and all that he’ll ever be, and that’s what matters.

That’s all that matters. _Harry_ is all that matters.

But that’s not to say he doesn’t feel guilty, doesn’t feel doomed in the heaviest and dirtiest and darkest of ways. He kissed his cousin’s boyfriend ― he made out with his cousin’s boyfriend, licked into her boyfriend’s mouth and gathered up the delicious taste, scratched her boyfriend’s bare back to leave a mark of red affection as he suckled and nipped to put one of his own on Niall’s skin, too, rocked and rolled and rotated his hips against her boyfriend’s till they were both delirious with gravelly pleasure and soiled their jeans in a public restroom at a mall while she shopped around with Niall’s new friend.

And they had no earthly mind of what was going on just under their noses.

He feels guilty because ― in some twisted, fucked up way ― Niall knows how being cheated on feels. Harry was _his_ ― Niall always considered Harry his through university because he knew the flings Harry had wouldn’t last, knew he would have to pick Harry’s broken pieces up and help to put them back together when there was nobody else who had enough patience to do so ― and then Lauren swooped in and gathered Harry’s heart and flew off with it, leaving Niall behind in the dust, on the barren ground with no sense of direction and few resources to survive.

And that _hurts_. Loving somebody that doesn’t love you, that you know you can’t have because they’re in deep with another person is like a paper cut: it’s a tiny little thing on a finger, on a hand, that goes undetected, for the most part, till something is there to irritate it, to make it well up and fester and smart with aggravation. It leaves behind an ugly scar, too, that won’t ever go away.

It’s not her fault, though. It’s not her fault Harry loves her, just like it isn’t Niall’s fault Harry cheated on her. Harry is a grown man with an abstract, rainbow-colored brain; he’s smart, and he’s fierce, and he’s very, very passionate, and he can make decisions on his own, find the x factor and pick through the nonsense till he’s at the end of the line where the shiniest pot of gold sits in wait.

Harry had a choice, and he chose to cheat on his girlfriend with her cousin, with his best friend.

Niall feels guilty. Yeah, Niall feels guilty, but he doesn’t regret a single second of the paradise he and Harry found with one another in that restroom.

He’ll not apologize for that because for all of the trouble Harry tends to cause, he brings a certain light to Niall’s life that he knows he can’t function without. Niall won’t apologize for being in love with that light because it’s one of the only things keeping him going.

There’s a knock at the door ― he’s been locking it lately, by the way, has a little note tacked to the wall to remind him to do so ― and he curses beneath his breath, dropping the warm slice of pizza on the plastic plate as he gets up from the stool he’s sat on and makes his way out of the kitchen.

It’s probably Grace, he thinks, tries to remember if he heard her correctly last night; he blinks his eyes, doesn’t bother to take a look through the peephole as he slides the deadbolt and opens the door wide.

And he’s unpleasantly caught off guard when he sees that Harry’s stood outside of his flat, dressed informally in a gray hoodie and blue jeans, and his hair is up in a bun and his face is clean and his eyes are as fresh as the lakes in Ireland and ― and _holy shit_ , Niall’s staring.

“Hi.” Harry smiles, soft and sweet and simple; he raises his hand in greeting, wiggles his fingers, and Niall sees that he’s taken off the rings he usually wears in favor of going without for a bit. “Can I come in?”

He blinks, and his eyes are blue-green today, bright and lively, and it’s kind of fun, kind of wondrous to watch Harry’s irises change through the days.

“Yeah,” Niall says, nods; he shuts his mouth, moves to the side, motioning for Harry to come inside; he steps in, and his smile is what stars are made out of it, and Niall’s stomach is a rumbling mess of total adoration and love for the goofy boy in front of him. “Yeah, please ― _please_ come in.”

Oh. Oh, damn. He’s eager, isn’t he?

Niall inhales, prays that a breath will save his sanity, and turns the lock; it shuts and hooks with a sharp sound, and Niall pivots on his socked heel, meets Harry’s pretty, pretty eyes.

“You’re locking the door now?” Harry asks, and his eyes are wide and he’s precious, so precious, and the grin on Niall’s face is hard to hide, makes his cheeks hurt as he brings his hand up and fake-coughs into his palm, nodding to answer Harry’s question. “That’s good. I’m glad. It… It’s not very smart to leave it unlocked. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you ‘cause of somebody’s stupidity.”

He reaches out then, puts his palm on Niall’s cheek and rubs at the skin beneath Niall’s eye, and it’s a touch so tender, so delicate and soft and sweet that Niall feels his heart swelling, and swelling and swelling and swelling, and it’s almost too large to fit inside of him.

So he gives it to Harry.

“Oh.”

“How have you been?” Harry asks, dropping his hand; he finds Niall’s wrist, interlacing their fingers as he tugs Niall along with him toward the sofa, dropping down. Niall falls, and his leg is on top of Harry’s and they’re shoulders are pressed together and the fire in his tummy is a flame that burns deep, that burns hot and bright and loud. “I’m sorry I’ve not been able to come see you till now, either. I ― I’ve just now finished with Christmas shopping, and… and yeah.” He shrugs his shoulders, gives Niall a lopsided grin that stokes the fire inside. “That’s it. I’ve been too busy for my own good.”

Niall wipes at his face, tries to control the raging burn in his stomach as it spreads, as it gathers his entire body in a heat that makes him turn red, red, _red_. He doesn’t know what’s going on ― he doesn’t know what Harry’s doing, what Harry’s thinking, but he likes it. He likes it _a lot_.

“Oh ― oh, Harry. It’s fine. And I’ve been shopping, too.” Niall offers a smile, and his hand is sweaty and Harry is grinning and Niall’s scared, frightened and insecure, but in Harry’s eyes he sees the same fire that’s billowing in his stomach and he knows ― he knows that Harry has no idea what’s going on, either, but Harry likes it just as much as Niall. And the fact that they’re in this mess together kind of makes up for all the shit they’ve gone through to get to this point. “I was eating pizza, when you came. Do you want any?”

“I already had lunch, but thank you for being considerate, baby,” Harry replies, and ― and fucking hell, Niall’s skin is burning, and the flame that was once yellow-red-orange is now blue, is now concrete cerulean that shines brighter than the sky.

Niall’s face is red; it’s just another norm in his life, he reckons. “Um, I don’t want to sound rude, but… but why are you here?”

A tiny grin curls at the corners of Harry’s pansy pink lips. “I’m having a little party tonight, Ni, and I want you to be there. Lauren’s flying home tomorrow and Louis and Kamryn are going to Manchester the twenty-fourth, and I didn’t want everybody to split without a proper goodbye.”

“You could’ve just called,” Niall says, and he’s blinking quickly, so fast, because he doesn’t want to miss a second of Harry’s beauty. “I would’ve answered.”

“I know, but I wanted to see you,” he retorts, squeezing his fingers tight around Niall’s. “And… and I wanted to tell you that I gave Lauren the ring. The one you and I went to ― I gave her the ring, Ni.”

“Oh.” And just as it started, the fire in Niall’s tummy is extinguished, is doused with water ― with Lauren’s water because Niall forgot that Harry loves her, that Harry is in love with her, that Niall’s nothing to Harry except for a convenient release. “Oh. Did she like it?”

“Yeah ― yes, she did, but… but Ni, that doesn’t matter. It’s not what you think ―”

“It is exactly what I think,” Niall cuts Harry off, and he’s calm and cool and collected, and his composure is equally as mature as it is fucking scary. “You gave her a ring ― you bought her a fucking ring, Harry, and gave it to her. It’s exactly what I think it is ‘cause I’m not bloody blind.”

A flash of panic dances across Harry’s face as Niall jerks his hand away and begins to stand. “No, no, no,” he squeaks, shakes his head as he grabs at Niall’s wrist, keeping him still. “No, it’s not. Niall, I didn’t buy her an engagement ring. I didn’t propose.” He’s spitting out the words, falling over the letters, and his desperation, his swift need to hurry and hurry and _hurry_ is endearing enough to make Niall sit back down, to reach for Harry’s hips and tug him up and over till he’s sat on Niall’s lap, straddling his legs. “I’m not ready for that, Niall. I don’t want to marry her.”

 _Yet_.

It’s a word that Harry didn’t say, that Harry won’t say, but it hangs heavy in the air, polarizing and detrimental.

“Why would you give her the ring after what happened between us?” Niall asks, demands, and his hands are on Harry’s hips, pushing beneath the gray hoodie; his fingers meet warm, dry flesh, and he caresses at the skin as Harry plays with Niall’s hair. “Why would you give my cousin that ring after you cheated on her with me?”

Harry’s hands still, and his eyes turn soft, and his face is destroyed and melted and Niall’s sorry for bringing it up, but it needed to be said, needed to be put out in the open. Harry is with Lauren, and Niall won’t be a second-best. He refuses to hold second place in the heart of the man who has everything of his.

“Just ― Can you give me some time, baby?” Harry asks ― and pleads and prays and begs ― and Niall can’t tell Harry no; Harry’s eyes are wide, and they’re pretty, and his face is cracked and his fingers are shaking and he’s a heavy weight atop Niall’s body, in Niall’s heart. He’s the heat, he’s the fire, and Niall can’t tell his favorite person no. “I couldn’t hold on to that ring any longer, and I had to give it to her. I’m ― I’m _sorry_. You’re so important to me, and I don’t know what to do ‘cause I don’t want to lose you. Will you please give me some time to figure everything out? _Please_?”

Niall nods ― Niall nods because he can’t talk, because yes tastes too sweet on his tongue and no is like trying to swallow acid, and he doesn’t want to hurt Harry like Harry’s hurt him.

Harry’s smile is large; he leans down, puts his lips to Niall’s mouth and keeps them there for a moment, and the fire is back, burning hotter than ever before, and his hands move along Harry’s hips, up his back as he kisses Harry in return, as he opens up and allows Harry to lick inside. Niall can feel the bumpy scratches on Harry’s spine he left behind in the restroom, and they must sting because Harry arches, hisses out a harsh breath against Niall’s lips that Niall swallows and erases.

He wonders how Lauren’s not noticed the red marks yet, wonders if Harry’s touched her or if she’s touched Harry since they discovered one another’s bodies five days ago.

But there’s not any need in wondering because he knows the answer, because Harry is wordlessly telling him the answer ― Harry’s not touched anyone, not been touched by anyone, since he and Niall had their wicked way with one another.

Fuck Lauren ― _Harry_ _is_ _Niall’s_.

And the sting of pride, the rush of rebellious arrogance makes Niall grin, makes him flip Harry on his back so they can properly kiss, so they can properly touch and taste and see and hear and feel one another till Harry’s sobbing and Niall’s eating up all the lovely sounds.

-

“You look dashing in that suit, Niall Horan. Black is definitely your color.”

At that familiar voice, Niall turns on his booted heel and sees that Grace is standing before him, wearing a deep crimson dress with a leather blazer covering her arms and black flats on her feet. The smile on her lips is pretty, and Niall rushes forward, wraps his arms around her neck in a hug that’s tight before she’s even all the way in the house.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Niall says, whispers in her ear as she giggles and hugs him back.

“Lauren invited me last night,” she replies, steps out of Niall’s arms and shuts the door; the bitter cold is closed off, but the chill remains, and Niall takes Grace’s hand in his, tugging her through the house and into the dining room where everybody else is sat, talking and eating and drinking. “I thought you already knew and that we could drive together, but I was surprised when I knocked on your door and you didn’t answer.”

“Harry came over and told me,” Niall answers her unasked question, giving her a sheepish smile as her brow raises. “I rode over here with him.”

“Hmm.” She reaches up with her free hand, fixes the collar of Niall’s black silk button down. “That’s a rather nice hickey you’ve got there. Wouldn’t want a certain someone to see it, would we?”

Niall’s neck prickles with a hot blush and he turns red. “Gracie, please ―”

“I’m not going to tell because it’s absolutely none of my business what happens between you and Harry behind closed doors, so you don’t have to worry,” she cuts him off, reassures his lava-like anxiety till all he feels is the wind of calmness blow through the room. “But you need to be careful. I know you love Harry, but I don’t know how he feels about you.”

“I ― I don’t know, either,” Niall replies, and it’s a whisper, and he realizes it’s the truth. He doesn’t know what Harry feels for him, if it’s anything at all.

 _Wow_.

“I don’t want him to hurt you, Niall, because the closer you get the worse it’s going to be,” she says, and her hand is warm as she cups his cheek, as she moves close to press a kiss to his jaw. “And I don’t want either of you to hurt Lauren. She’s a sweet, smart girl, and she doesn’t deserve to be misled by Harry if he’s going to go behind her back with you.”

“I ― we don’t know what we’re doing yet,” Niall says, stutters, and his face is red and his apprehension is high, is loud and dark, and he never thought he would be called out so quickly. “I don’t even know what I’m doing, honestly. I just know I want Harry.”

“Niall! Grace! Hurry up and come in before all the food’s gone!”

They’ve been spotted, it seems, and Niall raises his head to see Lauren, and she’s so stunning, so beautiful in her designer suit that’s made of baby pink silk with ivory stitching. He waves at her, and Grace does, too, but neither of them move or speak till Lauren’s out of sight, out of earshot.

“You and him need to figure it out, Niall,” Gracie warns as she tugs Niall along behind her, toward the thickness of the party. “And you need to do it soon because the longer you wait the more it’s going to hurt.”

He nods, bites his lip and closes his eyes. He knows.

He knows, he knows, _he knows_.

The room is full ― everybody’s here: Zayn and Liam, and Louis and Kamryn, who is round and waddling about like a penguin with the growing baby, and Lauren and Harry, too, and Harry’s so sharp, so handsome in the floral-print suit he’s wearing; the pants are bellbottoms, and it’s odd to see something like that nowadays, but Harry can pull it off, can make it look like it’s never gone out of style because Harry himself never goes out of style ― and the laughter is loud and the looks are hot and the touches are obscene and hidden beneath tables and behind backs and it’s too much, really.

But it’s Christmas. It’s Christmas, and Niall is here for his friends, for his family, just as much as he’s here for Harry.

Lauren leaves halfway through dinner, runs down the corridor and stays gone for a while; Harry takes that free time to get close to Niall, too close, and they talk quietly and touch secretly, and it’s wild, how they’re going behind everyone and pursuing one another when that should be the last thing on either of their minds tonight.

_This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong._

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong, but Niall can’t stop it, doesn’t want to stop it because Harry seems to not want it to cease, either.

There’s a tap on Niall’s shoulder, and he turns, with red cheeks and wide eyes from Harry’s idiotic affection, to see that Lauren’s standing behind him, and she’s gorgeous in her suit, with her perfect makeup and curled hair, and it kind of takes Niall’s breath away. His cousin is so, so _beautiful_.

“Niall, may I borrow Harry from you for a moment?” she asks, and her smile is giddy and cute, and Niall can’t tell her no, either, because he loves her like the sister he never had.

She takes Harry away, toward the center of the room, and it’s kind of like a consensual movement, in a way, because everybody turns toward the two where they’re stood, and it’s quiet and all Niall can hear is ‘Paint It, Black’ as Harry’s record player cuts through the oppressions. It’s the only noise louder than the beating of his heart, than the screaming thoughts in his mind.

“Harry, we’ve not known one another for long, but I do love you and you love me, too,” she begins, and it’s not a practiced speech; her eyes are wide and her cheeks are on fire and she’s holding Harry’s hands tight and the love for him she has is strong and loud and vibrantly _there_ and Niall doesn’t like this. “And you’re my best friend, too. I’ve told you a lot, and you’ve told me a lot, and you’ve helped me through so much more than I’ll ever be able to thank you for.”

“Lauren?” Harry’s voice is hoarse and Niall’s fingertips are numb and Louis’s looking at him and Liam’s looking at Harry and Grace is clutching Niall’s hand and Lauren’s eyes are wet and Kamryn is rubbing her tummy and Zayn is shaking his head as he drinks and drinks and drinks and the tension in the air is too much, is thick and nasty and dirty tasting as it chokes at Niall’s neck. “Lauren, babe, what are you doing?”

_It’s too much._

“Harry, I want to marry you,” she says ― she says, and gets down on one knee, and produces a thick silver band out of her pocket that’s plain save for the deep indentions that Niall can see from his spot against the wall; she’s looking up at Harry with tears in her eyes and Harry’s looking down at her with tears in his eyes, too, and Niall’s trying not to sob himself. “I want to spend the rest of my time with you because I love you, and I’ve never loved anybody as hard and as deep as I do you. Will ― Harry, will you marry me?”

The room is silent. The room is silent, and everyone’s eyes are flashing from Niall to Harry to Lauren and back again, and Niall’s noticing everything ― he notices the heat of the room, the taste of red wine on his tongue, the smell of juicy ham in the air, the silence of it all, the stares that are pilfering into his soul ― but Harry and Lauren are in their own little world, are in their own little bit of paradise.

Harry only has eyes for Lauren and Lauren only has eyes for Harry.

And Niall only has eyes for total heartache, it seems, because when things seem too good to be true, they usually are.

 _He’s going to say no, he’s going to say no,_ _he’s going to say no._

“Yes,” he says ― Harry says, jerking Lauren up to her feet as he wraps his arms around her tight, spinning and spinning and spinning, and Louis is looking at Niall and Liam is looking at the happy couple and Grace’s fingers aren’t tight enough to keep Niall in his place because she isn’t the one he wants. “Yes, you crazy lady, I’ll marry you!”

And ― and Niall’s heart is gone, is broken and shattered, and he needs to leave. He needs to get out now because there’s nothing left of him that wants to stay.

“ _Niall_!”


	24. twenty-four

The air outside is acute and crisp, full of sharp ends as it stabs at Niall’s cheeks and tears through the thin layer of clothing he’s wearing, and the blackness of night is broken apart by the purely white snow that’s falling down, that’s gathered on the walk and at the edge of the streets where it’s been plowed. The walk to his complex is quite far ― even by vehicle, it’s at least fifteen minutes ― and he’ll not be able to reach his flat without succumbing to a major bout of the flu if he doesn’t find a ride, but asking somebody at the party to take him away wouldn’t be very appreciative or nice of him, really.

They’re all enjoying themselves, having a great time that’s full of laughs and smiles and hugs that’ll last for years and years and years, long after the feeling is gone and the wrinkles of time have set in, and Niall’s a dark cloud of depression, of anger and irritation and hatred and filthy love, and him being there would only bring them down.

And he doesn’t want to disturb their happiness, doesn’t want to take them down of whatever level of elation it is that they’ve found tonight. It’s the end of the month, and it’s almost Louis’s birthday, almost Christmas, and Niall doesn’t want to cause a scene that’ll ring in the new year with nasty words and rude actions.

He’s better than that.

He’s better than Harry.

However, storming out in a fit of rage and slamming the door so loud the bolts rattled and kicking over the decorative snowman that’s sat out on the porch probably isn’t the most mature, responsible thing to do, either, really.

But staying ― staying, and allowing his mind to be burned by the turmoil that Lauren has unknowingly caused, that Harry has knowingly stoked, is a lot more stupid than taking his frustration out a cheap snowman.

The snowman can be replaced. Niall’s heart ― Niall’s mind, and his trust and his love and his safety and his happiness is something that can’t be replaced easily, that may not be able to be replaced at all.

Fuck the snowman, and fuck Harry, too.  

He’s not crying, though. Niall’s not crying, decided seconds ago that Harry isn’t worth anymore of his tears.

Niall hopes Harry’s happy, hopes he’s finally got what he’s wanted since he doesn’t know how to make up his mind, since he enjoys giving false hope to somebody who has been around through the tough years, through the bad days, through the long weeks. He hopes Harry’s found the one person in life he wants to experience everything with: ripe love, old age, lovable children, memorable holidays, warm vacations in Australia and cold trips to Norway and Finland and Switzerland. Niall hopes Harry’s found the one he wants to travel to India with, hopes he’s found the one he wants that has a dislike for radio that matches his, hopes he’s found someone who doesn’t mind cooking for him when he can’t because he’s too pitiful to learn how to properly work the appliances.

Niall hopes Harry is happy with Lauren because Niall is not happy ― he’s not happy with Harry, he’s not happy with Lauren, he’s not happy with himself.

And staying in that house, watching Harry spin Lauren around and around and around and doing nothing as she slipped the ring she bought ― it’s very nice, too, by the way, so simple and easy and distinctly _Harry_ that it makes Niall sick how well she knows the person Niall loves, how hard of a grip she has on the person Niall loves ― onto Harry’s finger is like staring at an infected wound as it festers, as it begins to get worse with every passing second till it’s so bad, so nasty and unhealthy that it needs attention from professionals.

Niall’s kind of broke, though, and he can’t afford to talk to anybody about his problems; he’s just going to have to function without a limb, it seems.  

Niall loves Harry ― Niall is in love with Harry, and he doesn’t think that’ll ever change, but there comes a time in life when it’s better to be selfish than selfless, and he’s picking himself. He’s picking himself over Harry because, in the end, Harry would’ve picked Lauren, anyway, and Niall doesn’t deserve to come in last place in the heart he’s always, always wanted.

“Niall!”

 _No_.

No, no, no, _no_.

“Niall!”

Niall glances over his shoulder, sees that Harry is racing after him, and he looks so beautiful beneath the yellow streetlight, surrounded by snow with his hair flowing out behind him, and he needs to be careful running like that on a slippery walk that’s covered in ice and snow and water because it’s quite dangerous, really.

And he opens his mouth, attempts to tell Harry to slow himself down, but remembers what happened only moments ago, and shuts up. If Harry doesn’t care for his health ― his physical health, his mental and emotional health ― then Niall can’t be bothered to worry over Harry’s wellbeing, either.

He shakes his head ― Niall shakes his head, gives Harry a sad smile and a halfhearted wave in parting, and turns back around to continue walking home, to continue walking out of Harry’s life.

Niall doesn’t belong there, anyway. That’s been said wordlessly, silently, over and over and over, and Niall’s only just now hearing how loud Harry’s been yelling.

“Niall! Niall ― _stop_.”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t stop because Harry’s not worth holding out for, not worth slowing down for, and it’s sad, depressing and so, so deplorable that it’s taken Niall this long to reason that Harry isn’t what he needs, that Harry shouldn’t be what he wants.

He doesn’t stop because he’s picking himself and Harry needs to come to the conclusion that he can’t have both of them.

“Ni ― baby, _please stop_!”

Harry’s voice is closer now; it’s thick and heavy, too, with some sort of emotion that Niall can’t really place, and he hopes Harry isn’t crying, hopes Harry isn’t trying to make this situation about himself when Niall should be at the forefront of his mind at the moment.

But that’s Harry for you, really ― always making things about himself when there’s so much more he can do to fix what he’s wronged.

“Niall ―”

There’s a hand on his shoulder then, a fist on his elbow, and Niall stops, turns around and gives Harry a disgusting look that’s full of anger, that’s full of dissatisfaction and hurt and betrayal.

Harry gave him hope. He was asked to wait, to give Harry time, and in the promise that he would, Harry showed Niall what real hope was.

But it was fake. It was all fake, all a show, all a little game Harry’s having too much fun playing, wasn’t it?

“What?” Niall yells, spits, jerking himself out of Harry’s grasp because he knows ― he knows if Harry’s touching him, if Harry’s feeling at his skin through his clothes, that he’ll lay down, that he’ll forgive Harry and forget about what just happened because he loves Harry, because he still loves Harry and he probably won’t ever stop. He’s strong, but he isn’t that strong just yet. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

Harry blinks, and his eyes are green now ― green, like the murkiness of a deep body of water surrounded by nature, and Niall hates how they remind him of all the summers he wasted back home swimming around in the lake at the back of his granddad’s property, hates how Niall can still look at Harry and not see one single ounce of ugliness.

Because Harry isn’t ugly. Harry is beautiful. Harry is the most beautiful person in the world.

Beautifully problematic, that is.

“Niall,” Harry says, breathes, and he’s panting from his exertion, from the run, and there’s a cloud of chill that’s connected to his pink lips that are smeared with a bit of red lipstick, and Niall snorts, rolls his eyes and scoffs because of course ― of course Harry had to kiss Lauren properly before he ran out after Niall, of course he had to implant the confirmation that he loves her more than he loves anybody else before he took off after the man he cheated on her with. _Of course_. “Niall, I ―”

“Why aren’t you with Lauren right now?” Niall cuts him off, puts his hands on his hips; it’s cold out, and Harry’s shivering and Niall’s cheek are frozen, but he can’t feel anything because the wildfire of vast emptiness in his body is keeping him warm in ways that Harry won’t ever be able to. “You need to go back. You need to go back to her and be with her, Harry. I’m sure she’s missing you.”

Harry’s face falls, and he coughs into his hand, tries to wipe at his eyes before the tears are falling, before the tears are seen, and it’s awful, really, that Niall wants to laugh ― Niall wants to fall to his knees in guffawed humor and joy, wants to point at Harry and poke fun at the wetness at the corners of his eyes because it’s _him_ that’s hurt now, it’s _him_ that’s falling apart from the inside.

It’s not Niall. It’s Harry’s turn to suffer, and Niall’s going to relish every single second of it.

“Niall, please ―”

“Please what?” Niall demands; Harry flinches, takes a step away and sniffles, but Niall doesn’t care that Harry’s scared of him, doesn’t care that Harry’s about to lose himself. “What do you want me to do, Harry? What do you want from me?”

Harry blinks, and a few tears fall, and Niall wants to reach out and brush them off, wants to wipe at the water and clear Harry’s face, but it isn’t his place. Harry is nothing to Niall, and Niall is absolutely nothing to Harry, too, and that’s a bite out of his heart, out of his soul that he’ll never get back.

It’s taken so, so long to realize that, but Niall has now. And he’s glad for it. He’s sick of chasing somebody who doesn’t want to be caught by him, sick of allowing himself to be fooled time and time again by a pretty smile and empty words.

“I… I want you to let me explain, Niall.”

Niall scoffs, rolls his eyes and barks out a laugh. “What is that you need to explain to me, Harry?” he asks, decides to entertain Harry’s wildness for a moment, reckons it’s the least he can do since he’s about to walk out of Harry’s life forever. “Go ahead. Talk to me. Explain to me why you told me you weren’t ready to marry her but you said yes. Explain to me how four fucking hours was enough time for you to make up your mind about who you wanted. Please tell me how I was stupid enough to allow you to build me up only to bring me back down like you always do.” He stops, takes a deep breath. “Tell me how ‘cause I don’t fucking know, Harry.”

“You’re not stupid, Niall. You’re not ― you’re _perfect_ , baby.” Harry’s hand reaches out and Niall flinches as his fingers wrap around the collar of his shirt, as he moves the bit of fabric to the side so his clavicle is bare, so Harry can see the yellow-purple bruise that’s fading like the respect Niall has for Harry. “And this isn’t stupid, either. What you and I have done, and what you mean to me is not stupid. None of it is.”

“Are you sure?” Niall asks, stepping out of Harry’s touch and fixing his collar; the bite of the cold is mean, is more likely to leave a lasting mark on his body than Harry’s teeth and mouth and tongue ever will. “’Cause you threw it away ― you threw me to the side like I’m nothing, Harry, like what you and I did with one another was just a casual fuck to relieve some of your frustration.”  

“Baby ― Niall, you’re everything to me,” Harry says, trips over himself to explain, to spit out before Niall effectively shuts him up. “You mean the world to me; I would break myself to give you whatever it is that you want because it hurts me when you’re hurting.”

Niall snorts. “You’re a fucking liar.”

“I’m not lying!” Harry screams, and his voice is rough and it cracks in the middle, screeches high enough to make Niall shiver. “I don’t know what I feel for you, but dammit, Niall, it’s something. It’s something, and it’s strong and I don’t want to fight it and I am not going to hide it.”

 _Liar_.

“You said yes.”

“I didn’t mean to.  I didn’t meant to say yes to her.” Harry shakes his head, throws his hands into his hair and tugs harshly at the cherry-brown tendrils, and Niall wants to tell him to stop, stop, stop, but he has no right now that Harry’s made it sure who he wants in the end. “I don’t want her, Niall!”

Saying yes was no accident. Niall’s not as ignorant as Harry thinks he is.  

“ _You said yes!”_ Niall replies, and he’s stepping forward, bringing his hands up and shoving at Harry’s chest, pushing him as far away as he can because it’s hard to look into Harry’s eyes when all he sees is fake hurt and lying regret. “She asked you to marry her, and you said yes! You can’t accidentally say you’ll marry somebody, fucknut!”

“Niall…”

“You said yes right in front of me, Harry!” Niall says, and he’s started his rampage now, and he isn’t going to be able to stop, isn’t going to be able to swallow back his feelings for Harry. It’s time ― it’s time he lays it all out there in the open, time he tells Harry just why Niall’s put up with his shit for so long. “After what happened at the mall and what you said to me at my flat, Harry, you said _yes_. You told my cousin that you would marry her. You asked me to give you time, and you told me you didn’t want to marry her, but you fucking said yes!”

“But I don’t want her!”

“You sure as hell don’t want me, either!”

It’s silent then, and the chill is a weight on Niall’s chest, a sting to Niall’s face. It’s silent, and Niall’s breathing hard and Harry’s tears are a single flow and Niall’s hands are shaking and Harry’s picking at his fingers and Niall’s mad and Harry’s sad and Niall wants to cry and Harry’s trying to hide the fact that he’s crying and they’re both so fucked up, so broken and battered beyond repair that it’s kind of funny Niall ever thought they would be good together when they’re clearly so toxic, so ugly for each other.

This isn’t going how Niall thought it would.

But it’s time. It’s time, and Niall’s tired of not being true to himself.

“Harry, I love you,” he says, shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them again to divulge Harry’s expression; his chest is heavy and his stomach is large and his heart is constricting but it feels good, _so good_ , to be able to let his best friend in on the secret that has been keeping him up at night for months. “I love you, and I’ve been in love with you for years. Ever since I walked in on you and Lou ― Harry, I’ve liked you since the moment I met you, and when you decided to be my friend, when you decided to show me how to have fun and how to love myself as much as I love others and how to not let what people say get me down, I fell in love with you.”

Harry’s face is pale. His face is pale, and his eyes are wide, and his lips are pink and parted, and his cheeks are red and his chin is wobbling and his fingers are shaking as he continues to grip and jerk at his hair, but Niall can’t tell what he’s thinking, can’t read his thoughts.

So he continues. He continues because he’s not sure what else he can do.

“And ― and when you met Lauren, when she asked you to dance with you after I wouldn’t and you said yes, I knew it needed to stop. I knew I needed to stop having these feelings for you ‘cause you weren’t into men, ‘cause you and her were going to date. I knew I needed to stop before I got in too deep and you broke my heart.”

He stops, shakes his head and swallows around the tight lump of rejection in his throat and it hurts so bad to be saying this to Harry, to be laying out his heart on the dirty ground when this is not how he wished to bare himself.

“But I couldn’t stop, Harry. I couldn’t. Every time I tried, every time I attempted to ignore how much you mattered to me, it hurt _right here_ , and it wouldn’t go away till you smiled at me, till you made me laugh and touched my heart.” He reaches out, puts his hand on Harry’s chest ― and his heart is beating, is going wild in his body, and Niall allows a little grin because his is doing the same thing. “I couldn’t stop, and now we’re here. Now my heart’s broke, and there’s nothing you or I can do to fix it.”

Harry drops his hands from his heart, moves his fingers to Niall’s wrist and holds on tight. “Why?” he asks, breathes, and it’s a quiet question that makes Niall burn.

“Because you were worth it. Because you were special ― because you could make me happy when I was sad, because you could make me think deeper and broader than I ever had before, because you were always there for me when I didn’t think I needed anybody but myself.”

Harry sighs; his face is dark and his eyes are nearly closed and his lips are dry and his cheeks are flushed from the tears he’s been crying and he looks every bit the way sadness feels. “And I’m not now, am I?”  

Niall shakes his head, curls his fingers into Harry’s shirt because if this is the last time they’re going to see one another, he doesn’t want to go without leaving a little piece of himself behind for Harry to remember him by.

“No, you’re not,” he answers, light and airy; the fire he felt moments before is gone, vanished, and all he can see is the icy crystals of defeat swirling around their lips as they breathe in and out. “You’re not worth all the pain and all the hurt, and you asking me to stay so you can explain yourself is wrong, Harry. It’s _wrong,_ and you are not worth it.”

Harry shuts his eyes, thins his lips; the tears are back, and they’re heavy and thick on his eyelashes, and Niall hates the way they catch the overhead lights so prettily, so fresh and raw and gorgeous. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and what for, Niall can’t tell you. Everything, probably, but it doesn’t matter now. “Is there anything I can do to fix it ― to fix us?”

Niall smiles, unclenches his fingers from Harry’s blazer and drops his hand to his side, shoving his frozen palm into the pocket of his slacks. “There’s not,” he replies, and the finality in that statement is a harsh slap to the face, a stinging word of slander to the ear that makes his resolve shudder and quake. “There really isn’t.”

“I’m sorry I can’t fix you,” Harry says, and he isn’t even trying to hide his tears now, isn’t trying to conceal his emotions from Niall any longer; there’s no point in suppressing the sadness, anyway. “I’m sorry I can’t fix us.”

“And I’m sorry I can’t fix you, either,” he copies, but it’s the truth ― it’s the truth, and this is final, and there’s nothing either of them can do now to fix it because it’ll only tear other people down, and Niall won’t have that. He can’t be happy at the expense of others. “I’m gonna go home now, Harry.”

“Home?” Harry repeats, and his tone is crushed, is burned and blurry with emotion, and Niall can feel Harry’s hurt, can feel Harry’s desolation because he’s experiencing the same thing. “How are you going to get there?”

Niall shrugs, offers Harry one last smile and pivots on his heel, continuing his nighttime stroll of realization. “I’ll take the bus,” he tosses over his shoulder, but doesn’t look back. Niall doesn’t look back because there’s nothing to see except for a broken man who has broken Niall first. “Merry Christmas, Harry.”


	25. twenty-five

The walk back to his house, back to the party and back to his friends and back to the juicy food and back to his girlfriend-turned-fiancée is rough, is cold and windy and rigid and trying and full of spitting snow that hits his cheeks, that eats at his warm skin till he feels like nothing but bone, nothing but skeleton, nothing but sticks that have been snapped in two, in three, in four and five and six.

Stones can break sticks, though, if thrown hard enough, and Niall’s words are the rocks that have bent and battered and butchered his bones without remorse, without the possibility of ever healing.

How fitting. How fitting that Niall breaks Harry’s bones after Harry has broken Niall’s heart.

He’s not whole. He hasn’t been whole in a long time, and now that he’s cracked in half, fractured in multiples, he’s seeing just how fucked up and sorry he is for being mean, for being forgetful, for being nasty and jealous and callous and disloyal and idiotic and greedy.

He’s a piece of shit.

Harry laughs, throws his head back and looks up at the stars with a nasty smirk; the flakes of snow catch on his eyelashes, melt and fall into his eyes, and they’re blurring his vision, smearing his sight and burning his pupil, but he doesn’t care because he’s a piece of shit and he deserves every bad things he’s going to get in the future.

Every single thing. 

“I’m a piece of shit.”

Again and again and again ― till it’s hanging in the air like the whispers of snow that’s clinging to his skin, till it’s painted on his flesh like the gritty tattoos that run up and down his body in the same way graffiti hugs a building’s curves, till it’s hot lava beneath his steps that burns and chars and rots his feet, till it’s acidic bile in the back of his throat that makes him want to vomit without the possibility of stopping, till it’s screaming in the wind that slaps at his face, that blows and blows and _blows_.

_I’m a piece of shit, I’m a piece of shit, I’m a piece of shit._

And how ignorant, really, that he thought he could help Niall, that he thought he could fix Niall when he can’t even make up his own goddamned mind.  

His head is a mess. Harry’s head is a mess, full of Niall and his confessions, full of Lauren and her sparkling eyes as she was down on one knee, full of Niall and his expression as he ran, full of Lauren and her smile when Harry said yes, full of Niall and the emotions and the curiosity and the history, full of Lauren and the sophistication and the smiles and the loyalty.  

Niall loves him. Niall is in love with him.

Lauren loves him, too. Lauren is in love with him, too.

And Harry’s just accepted a marriage proposal after he told Niall he wasn’t ready to marry yet, after he asked Niall to give him time ― to give him time to figure out what he wants, who he wants, how he’s feeling, why he’s feeling that way, when it’ll stop, if it’ll stop.

He just needs time. And that’s something he doesn’t really have, is it?   

Harry’s stomach hurts. He feels empty, feels like he’s lacking everything he needs to survive ― but he’s feeling full, too, of regret, of guilt, of anger, of sadness, of indignation. He’s empty, barren and wasting away because he’s nothing, but he’s full, thick and hefty, too, and he’s lost.

He’s lost in his mind, lost in his heart, lost in his soul ― because it’s all hitting him. _Now_. It’s punching him in the face, kicking at his shins ― it’s catching up to him, and it’s taking his breath away.

He’s engaged to Lauren; he likes Niall; Lauren is his girlfriend-turned-fiancée; Niall is his best friend who’s always been there, who’s always had his back even when he was pressed against the wall with nowhere to go, with no one to turn to; he’s cheated on Lauren with Niall; he’s made Niall promises that gave the both of them false hope; he’s accepted Lauren’s proposal; he ran right after Niall as soon as he saw Niall tuck tail and run away with a ring on his finger he isn’t sure he wants.

And… and he’s fucked. He wants to fix it ― he wants to fix himself, wants to fix Niall, wants to fix the relationship he’s ruined and thrown to the ground and stomped all over like a pile of trash. He wants to fix it all.

But there’s no end in sight. He’s engaged to Lauren and he wants Niall, too ― he loves Lauren _, he does_ , but he’s not so sure if he’s as in love with her as much as he used to be, and he adores Niall, will go to the ends of the bloody world for Niall if it means he’ll smile for Harry, and he’s blown it. He’s absolutely shot it all to hell.

There’s no end in sight. Harry is numb, is dirty and disloyal and discouraged and dilapidating right beneath the snow-streaked starry sky that’s full of flickering illumination, and there’s no end in sight because Niall ― because his _light_ ― is gone.

He’s not crying anymore, though. At least he isn’t crying; tears aren’t going to change anything, anyway. They’re as useless as his pleas, as his begging and praying and bargaining.

Niall’s not going to come back. Niall is gone, and he isn’t coming back.

And that hurts. It’s as simple as that ― Harry’s chest is bare and his heart is bleeding and his mind is breaking in two, and it hurts. It all _hurts_.

Harry sighs, scratches at his frozen cheeks and strides up the slick, snow-covered walk; the stoop is icy and the snowman is kicked over ― he reckons Niall let out a bit of his frustration on the poor thing, and the thought would be kind of funny had it not been because of the current situation, really ― and the brass knob is a piece of metal so cold it’s hot, so chilled it’s burning Harry’s hand as he turns the thing, as he pushes the door wide and steps inside to a place that’s bursting at the seams with a sort of happiness that Harry isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to feel again.

Not that he deserves it. He deserves nothing.

The warmth hits him, full-force, and knocks away what little bit of breath he was able to regain in his walk back. His cheeks are thawing, and it stings, feels like he’s peeling off layers of skin; the heat rushes over his body, around his body, and he’s itching beneath his suit, and his nails want to claw the designer material off, want to rip it to shreds and find the clothes Niall accidentally ― _accidentally_ , because Harry had to have something left of Niall here ― behind, to tug them on and curl up on his sofa and drink hot chocolate and munch on snickerdoodle cookies till he’s sleepy from the sweetness of it all, till he can fall asleep and dream of Niall and Niall and _Niall_.

But Lauren’s here. Lauren’s here, and she’s his fiancée, and he can’t forget about her.

He can’t forget about her. He said yes ― _he said yes_ , and that means he can’t forget about her.

He’s engaged to her ― of course he can’t forget about his fiancée.

He did before, though, didn’t he? In the restroom at the mall, beneath Niall on his sofa in his flat as they kissed and kissed and kissed till Harry was raw and Niall was hard and they were both going to have to strategically cover up a few marks here and there that their tongues and teeth left behind, he forgot about Lauren, shoved her out of his mind and basked in Niall, Niall, Niall.

Because Niall is _everything_

She’s an amazing girl. She’s smart, and funny and lively and intelligent and cultural; she’s hardworking and successful and courageous and loyal, and she doesn’t deserve what Harry’s done to her, doesn’t deserve what Harry may continue to do to her.

After all, if you’ve cheated once, you’ll cheat again, right?

But he can’t let her go. He won’t let her go because he wants her, because he wants Niall ― he won’t let Lauren go because Niall may not want him even then, and he doesn’t want to be alone, doesn’t want to left to fester like an infected wound that leaves an ugly scar to show what fresh hell it came from.

Harry’s an ass, and a piece of shit, but he doesn’t want to let Lauren go. He may not be in love with her like he used to be, but he cares for her enough to marry her, to make her happy, to give her a joyful life full of whatever it is she wants. He owes her that much, at least, doesn’t he?

He’s cheated on her, betrayed her, took her for granted ― he can at least give her himself because that’s what she seems to want most.

It’s Christmas, after all. He needs to be good now because he doesn’t want the new year to be ugly, to be painted in blacks and browns and grays and darkness like it is now.

“How is he?”

Harry makes a noise, looks up and sees that Lauren’s standing in front of him; her pink suit is kind of wrinkled now and her makeup is smeared where Harry kissed her face, but she’s beautiful still, so round and pretty and soft in a way only she can be. She’s amazing.

Harry doesn’t deserve her, and she shouldn’t want a mess like him, either, but she does and he’s let her down enough ― it’s the guilt, it’s the regret, it’s the anguish, it’s the delinquency of it all that’s keeping Harry and her together. He loves her, but he isn’t in love with her, and leaving her now will only break her heart, and he doesn’t want to tear any more people apart. It hurts, and it’s the worst pain to feel, really: loving somebody when they don’t, when they won’t love you back must be what it’s like to rip your own heart out.

No, Harry doesn’t deserve Lauren. He doesn’t want her, either, but she wants him. He doesn’t want her because he wants Niall. He wants Niall.

 _Holy shit_. Holy shit ― _he wants Niall._

Harry wants Niall. He’s made up his mind ― Harry wants Niall. 

But it’s too late, isn’t it?

Harry sighs, puts on a fake smile and wraps his arm around her neck, pulling her in close so he can press a kiss to her forehead. “’Member a few weeks back when he was puking and not feeling well?” Harry asks, reminds Lauren of when it all mindlessly began; his lips are pressed to her forehead and his nose is in her light brown hair, and it smells nice, smells like honeysuckle and strawberries. It’s a familiarity that eases the bitter sadness in his heart and he’s grateful for her taking his burden even though she has no mind of it. “He isn’t completely over it, and it hit him all at once so he ran out. He said he doesn’t want to get any of us sick.”

Lies, lies, lies. It tastes like ash, like burned paper and charred plastic and melted metal, and he hates lying, hates the way it puts a rock in the pit of his stomach that will only grow each passing second the fib isn’t made right, but Lauren can’t know the truth. She _will not_ know the truth.

Harry won’t let her know.

She drops her head against his chest, grips the lapels of his suit and holds onto the fabric ― it’s Gucci, by the way, part of his Christmas gift to himself as he was buying Niall’s present. “Are you sure that’s it?” she asks, and her face is pressed into his body, into his heart, but he can hear her loud and clear, and he doesn’t want to. “I mean, he took off so ― so _fast_ , and he looked so distraught, and I’m upset at you because you didn’t let me go after him. But is that ― that’s it, right?” She pulls away, blinks her eyes and looks up at Harry, and she’s gorgeous, she’s beautiful, and she’s a gem that does not deserve Harry, that does not deserve the things that have gone on behind her back, beneath her nose. “He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

The truth?

Yes. Yes, Niall is going to be okay because he doesn’t need a person to complete him, because he doesn’t need Harry to wake him up or drive him to work or do his laundry. Niall’s going to be perfectly fine because he doesn’t need Harry.

And Harry?

He’s not going to be okay at all.

But is he going to tell Lauren that, let her in on the secrets he’s going to take to the grave with him?

No. _Fuck no_. He’d rather lie than break this precious girl’s heart.

“Yeah, babe.” He nods, gives her a smile that he hopes doesn’t look as mangled as it feels on his chapped lips. “Niall’s going to be okay.”

“I still think you’re lying to me,” she replies ― _that’s ‘cause I am!_ ― but the smile on her face is forgiving and Harry hates how she’s so easy to look over the problems, so quick to let go of the transgressions that’s been directed at her. But Niall’s the same way, isn’t he ― so forgiving it’s pitiful? “But I’m not going to push it. It’s been a long day, and I just want to enjoy the rest of the night with my best friends and my fiancé.”

Her smile is large, is what diamonds are made of, and Harry loathes the fact that he’s the reason her eyes are shining, that he’s the reason her face is sparkling, that he’s the reason her soul is on fire.

He doesn’t want to be hers. He wants to be Niall’s, dammit.

But he won’t be. He’ll stay with her because she wants him to; Niall deserves happiness, Lauren deserves happiness, and if it’s at the expense of Harry’s happiness, that’s okay. It’s okay.

“He says he’s sorry,” Harry says, reaching up and fingering at a thick lock of hair that’s fell out of a curl and snagged across her forehead. “He didn’t mean to rush out like that but he had to. Couldn’t help it.”

She nods; her hand reaches out for his, and her fingers find the ring she recently placed on there, and she’s so soft and comfortable and relaxed in what she _knows_ Harry feels for her, in what she _thinks_ Harry feels for her, and it’s sickening.

It’s sick. Harry is so fucking _sick_.

“Come back ―”

“I’m gonna go the restroom,” he cuts her off, rushes to spit out as he presses a hard kiss to her forehead, gently shoving past her. “It’s ― It’s just hit, and I can’t hold it, babe. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He’s gone, then. Through the house, around the furniture, down the corridor, into the bathroom at the end that smells like lavender and vanilla, that’s full of his dirty clothes and empty soap containers and a few razors here and there because he’s always been shit at picking up after himself, really, and not having Niall here with him is testament to that fact.

He shuts the door, flicks the lights on and drops his shoulders; he leans against the marble countertop, puts his head in his hands and breathes ― and breathes and breathes and breathes till he can think clearly, till he can make sense of the mess that’s dancing and curling and twisting in his mind.

He wants Niall; he does not want Lauren. However, he’s going to marry her and stick with her because he owes it to her to make her happy, because he owes it to Niall to make him happy, too, and if they’re happy ― if the two people in his life who he wants to keep forever and ever and ever are happy and he isn’t, that’s okay. It’s okay.

And ― and that’s it then? He’s going to throw away his happiness in order to see Niall and Lauren happy?

Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. That’s it.

Abruptly, there’s a bang on the door, and Harry steps to the side, reaches out to open it; it flies wide, though, and in rushes Grace, all long hair and rolling curves and pretty fabric, and she’s slamming it behind her sudden entrance, turning the lock and pivoting on her heel to look, to glare at Harry.

Harry scratches the back of his neck; he’s itchy with apprehension, and he hates the way it’s making his fingertips tingle. “Um… Hi?”

“Shut the fuck up and listen to what I have to tell.”

_Bloody fuck._

Okay.

Harry nods ― and nods and nods and nods some more. Grace is shorter than him, smaller than him, but there’s no doubt in his mind she can tear him apart, limb from limb, should she want to.

And, the thing is, she’s glaring and kind of growling and her arms are crossed, and she looks every bit the pissed off badass Harry knows her to be.

“You are one stupid fuck, you know?” she asks, begins; the look on her face is hard, and Harry just nods, moves away till his knees hit the toilet so he can sit. “And ― and I don’t hate you ‘cause my mother taught me to not hate anybody, but _holy shit_ , Harry Styles, you are this close to getting a solid ass kicking. You are _this fucking close_ to getting my foot up your ass without a bottle of lube to make it easy, dickmunch.”

She holds up her hand, shows Harry what miniscule bit of space he has left to work with, and he nods, gulps around the lump in his throat. He’s scared, and he’s hurt and confused and defeated, and he doesn’t want to add physically impaired to that list just yet.

“I swear to all that is holy ― Lauren is a good girl. She is a _great_ _fucking_ _girl_ ― she is a queen, Harry. A queen! And you’re playing her like this, stringing her along and letting her think you’re in love with her when you’re not, when you don’t even want to be with her. That’s low, man. That’s, like, the lowest of the low. And then you have Niall ― Niall, Harry. Niall ― _Niall_ , who’s been here, who adores you, who is so blindly in love with you that he would break himself apart if it meant you would smile. You have these two wonderful people vying for you, offering to love your sorry ass till the end of time, and you’re ― you’re in here having a pity party. What the fuck, Harry?”

“I ― I ―”

“You do not speak,” Grace interrupts, holds her hand up in warning, and he doesn’t really think she’d hit him, but he doesn’t want to chance that theory, either. “You will not talk until I am finished.”

Harry nods.

“Your level of self-righteous ignorance is one I’ve never seen before. You’re so indecisive; one minute, Lauren is the only person on your mind, and in the next, you’re jumping Niall’s bones in the restroom at a mall and sucking the biggest bloody hickey onto his neck that I’ve ever seen. Harry, you can’t have both of them. You cannot have Lauren and Niall. You _can’t_.”

She stops, takes a deep breath to calm herself down; her face isn’t as red as it was before, isn’t as flaming and as raging, but she’s still a lot scarier than he’s used to. Harry feels a bit safer than he did, but Grace is a dangerous, wild person, and he doesn’t want to piss her off more than he already has.

“You have ripped Niall to shreds and given him false hope; you have used him, forgotten him, took him for granted and then thrown him away like he was nothing to you. You allowed him to think he had a chance with you, and then… and then you go and accept Lauren’s proposal like you’ve been head over heels for her this entire time. You… you are stupid. You’re so _stupid_ , and you don’t deserve either of them because they are too good ― they are too fucking good for you, Harry.”

Harry sniffles, wipes at his nose and lifts his gaze off of the floor. “I ― I know. I know, and I agree.” He blinks, puts his hands in his lap and twiddles his thumbs together; he doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know what else he can do. “And I… I love Lauren. I do. But I’m not in love with her. And Niall ― Niall is _everything_.”

Grace sighs, bends to kneel and puts her hands on Harry’s knees, digging her fingers into his skin through his slacks till he’s sure he’ll feel her even after he’s dead and gone. “You messed up, Harry,” she says, and it’s a gentle, tender sentence that breaks Harry’s dam of tears like dynamite, and it’s an exploding rush of water that threatens to drown him if he doesn’t let it all go. “You messed up because Lauren thinks she’s going to marry you and Niall thinks he’ll never have you. You messed it all up, Harry.”

“I know.” He frowns, forces the icky tears away till all that’s left is a blurry picture of pretty, pretty Grace and a throat that’s on livid fire. “I know. And ― and Lauren doesn’t deserve what I’ve done to her. She wants me, and she’ll… she’ll have me. I’ll marry her, and I won’t break it off unless she wants to because she loves me. I’m going to make her happy ‘cause I know if she’s happy, Niall will be, too.”

“And you?” Grace asks, slants her head and purses her lips. “What about your happiness?”

Harry shrugs. “Niall and Lauren are my happiness,” he replies, and it’s scary how he’s telling this to a girl he hasn’t even known for a month. _Wow_. His life has just flipped all around, hasn’t it? “They’re my happiness, and if they’re happy, then it’s okay. If they’re happy, I don’t have to be happy.”

Grace nods and stands; her knees pop loudly and it’s a noise that makes Harry cringe, that makes his skin roll and spread till he doesn’t feel human. “I hope you can fix this,” she says, and she’s headed toward the door now, and Harry wants to cheer, wants to jump up and do a little dance because he’ll be left alone again. “I hope you can fix everything you’ve messed up, but I don’t think you can.”

She’s gone then ― gone, and all that’s left of her is the words that are swimming and swarming in his mind like the flurries outside dancing in the wind.

He may not be able to fix everything he’s wronged, everything he’s destroyed, but he’s going to try. He’s going to try till there’s nothing left of the man he used to be.


	26. twenty-six

Harry’s hands are shaking as he picks up his phone, as he unlocks the screen and ignores the blurry background of him and Lauren; he finds the app he needs and types in the number by memory, by heart. It doesn’t matter that it’s one in the morning, doesn’t matter that she’s halfway across the world in America or that she’s probably sleeping, probably cuddled up in a warm bed with loads of pillows and a messy head of whatever-colored hair she has now.

She’s one of the only constants in his life, one of the only people who have been there for him since he was an ignorant little four-year-old with a fondness for mud and all things frog-related, and he knows ― he knows she’ll help him, knows she’ll tell him how it is and how it should be, and he trusts her because she loves him, because she’s his sister and she’ll never let him down.

Gemma is his princess. Always has been, always will be. And if there’s anybody in the world who will understand what he’s going through, who will have no mercy even as she’s shows him all the love, it’s her.

He can’t very well go to his mum about this ― this mess of cheating and loving and liking and weddings and walking out. His mum would have his head, and he wouldn’t blame her a single bit; she adores Lauren and she loves Niall, and Harry knows his mum would not stand for his idiotic behavior.

But is it really idiotic when he had no idea of Niall’s feelings toward him?  

It rings, and he’s always hated her dial tone ― it’s a song, by the way, one by Mariah Carey that their mother would listen to as she washed the dishes or folded laundry or swept up the mud and frogs that never failed to get tracked in, and Harry’s not ever been fond of her music because of the constant repetition of his childhood but kudos to those who are; she is a very sweet, very beautiful woman with a sick talent ― and he sighs as he listens to ‘Without You’, makes himself a bit more comfortable on his bed in the dark of his room.

There’s a noise, a blurry bit of sound that seems like an amalgamation of a groan and a yell and a vicious curse, and he wants to laugh, wants to giggle and hide the chuckles behind his hand, but every ounce of entertainment has been drained from his body and he can’t find it in him to even smile.

“Holy fuck ― Harry, what the hell?” Gemma answers, screams in a rush of hoarse awareness, and Harry winces, pulls the phone away from his ear so he doesn’t go deaf from her perpetual howling. “It’s bloody seven ― Harry, _what the hell_?”

“Hi, Gem.”

“Don’t you ‘Hi, Gem’ me, you little prick,” she hisses; there’s a lot of background noise, and it’s fuzzy and thick and loud, and then there’s a bang that makes Harry worry for Gemma’s safety, really. She’s always been clumsy, always been a bit graceless, and she’s broken as many bones in her body as Harry has gotten grounded for hiding frogs in the house as a kid. “It’s literally the ass crack of dawn here ― like, the sun is peeking up behind the mountains and it doesn’t even want to be awake yet ― and you’re calling me. Why ― why are you even awake, Harry?”

She’s a mess. Oh, dear, Gemma is still the biggest mess when she’s just been awakened, and that is a familiar fact that finds the sadness in Harry’s heart, that thaws the icy chill of total devastation and begins to rebuild from the charred remains that are lying in the ashes of his soul.

“Um, I can’t sleep.”

Gemma coughs. “And why can’t you sleep?”

Harry shuts his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose; it’s dark in his room and he’s finally ― _finally_ ― changed out of the stiff suit from earlier. The pants Niall left behind were ripped in the crotch ― easy access, but ultimately uncomfortable as fuck, especially when Harry rather likes to sleep without underwear, and he can’t have his junk falling out in the middle of the night ― but the shirt was clean and it smelled like Niall, like spice and peppermint and pine needles, and he’s satisfied in the bed, between the sheets that he shared with Lauren, that he shared with Niall.

He’s got nowhere else to go, really. Niall dislikes and doesn’t want him, Lauren’s soaring through the sky with clouds of a twisted mixture of deception and happiness, Zayn’s very drunk, Louis is pissed, Liam is sad, Grace will literally rip his dick off should he even look at her the wrong way, and Kamryn is seven months pregnant.

Seven? Is she? Is she seven months along now?

Harry never knows. She’s pregnant, and he quite likes to feel of her belly, but he’s not sure how far along she is.

“I fucked up, Gem,” he announces, answers her acidic question; he doesn’t want to beat around the bush, would rather get it over with than dance behind the reason he’s calling. “I mean ― it’s _bad_ , Gemma. I messed it up bad.”

“What did you do?” she asks, breathless and demanding; she’s wound tight, tensed in the worst of ways, and Harry can hear the strain in her voice, can feel the stress he’s accidentally put her under. “Harry, what did you do?”

“I… I just ― nothing in the way you’re thinking,” he stutters to reassure her, stumbles over his words till her breathing is steady, till he can open his eyes; a rainbow of colors assaults his black vision and he flinches as he sees blue. “I only need to talk, Gem. I need to talk to somebody, and you’re the only person that can help me at the moment.”

“Harry, I’m a veterinarian,” she replies, lets out an exasperated breath that he can feel through the phone ― but at least she isn’t on the verge of panicking anymore. That has to count for something. “I’m not a counsellor or a psychiatrist, either. Two months does not make me an expert to talk to, bub.”

God, she isn’t listening. _She isn’t listening._

“Gemma ― Gem, please. Please just let me talk with you for a little while. _Please_.” He’s begging ― he’s begging and pleading and praying, and it’s a sad realization, really, because he’s never got down on his knees, never beseeched a person to take sympathy on him before. It leaves a nasty taste in his mouth, but he has no pride and he just wants to _talk_. “Let’s talk for a minute, Gemmy. Please.”

“Gemmy?” Gemma repeats, and she’s kind of restless, kind of breathless and taunt in the same way Harry is now. Though three years and thousands of miles separate them, they’re still so tuned into one another that it’s nearly scary. “You’ve not called me that since you were ten, Hazzy.”

Harry snorts, lets out a hot breath that feels like a sort-of laugh. “You’ve not called me that in a long time, either,” he replies, shakes his head. He’s always hated that name; his name is Harry ― not Haz, not Hazzy, not Harold.

Just Harry. And sometimes H.

But only with Niall ― only _for_ Niall.

However, when it comes to Gemma ― when it comes to Gemmy, she’s welcome to call him whatever she wants and in return, he can do the same to her. After all, she’s the one who came up with most of Harry’s icky, ignorant nicknames, anyway, and Harry likes to make his sister cringe with the memories of their childhood.

“What you’ve done must’ve been bad if you’re reverting back to your ten-year-old self,” she muses, and she sounds a lot clearer now, not as congested and thick as before. “What’s on your mind, Harry?”

Harry pulls in a large breath, spreads his legs apart so he can find the coolness of the sheets on his bare knees, and ― and it kind of all comes spilling out of his mouth, really, and it’s a bile-filled bout of word vomit that makes him sick, sick, sick.

“I ― I’m getting married. Lauren asked me to marry her, and I said yes, but I didn’t mean to ‘cause I’m not really in love with her anymore. I mean, I _love_ her ― I love her like I love my friend, but she’s in love with me and I don’t want to hurt her because she is so lovely, so sweet, and she deserves so much better even though she wants me. I… I am not worth a love like she can give. And ― and my best friend Niall? You ‘member him, right ― the blond boy I brought home last Easter ‘cause his flight got cancelled and he couldn’t make it back to Ireland? Yeah, him.”

Harry stops, takes a deep breath and allows his mind to run away for a moment. Niall’s flight was cancelled at the last minute, and since he couldn’t make it back to Ireland in time for the holiday, Harry invited him to spend the weekend with his family, and it was fun ― it was full of laughter, full of early mornings and yellow sunshine and dyed fingers (the eggs just wouldn’t turn colors, dammit, and Niall just kept adding the little tablets) and sweet smiles and bunny-shaped chocolate and homemade dishes and loads of impromptu photos. It was fun ― it’s one of those moments in life that Harry hopes he’ll remember till the end of time because he was happy, because Niall was happy, and it was _real_.

It was real because it’s impossible to fake a feeling like that, because it’s impossible to understand a feeling like that.

“Gemmy, he’s in love with me, too. He’s been in love with me for years, and I was too blind to see it, and I’ve hurt him, Gemma ― I’ve hurt him so bad he doesn’t want me anymore. He doesn’t even want to be near me. And… and I kind of like him back, too, and I cheated on Lauren with him ― but we didn’t do anything more than kissing and a little bit of touching, really, and that’s still cheating and I feel really awful for that but _I_ _like him_. I like him, but I want to make Lauren happy ‘cause she deserves all the happiness in the world and ― and Gemma, I don’t know what to do. I fucked up so bad, and I don’t know what to do.”

She’s silent. She’s silent, and Harry knows she’s judging him, knows she’s discovering everything wrong with what he’s done and picking it apart, piece by piece, to find the silver lining in the dankness of it all ― but there isn’t any silver lining, isn’t any sign of hope in this unfortunate and gloomy situation.

Harry fucked up, and in fucking up, he’s fucked everybody over, too. What is the possible hope behind that?

He just hopes she doesn’t hang up, hopes she doesn’t decide to add to the mounting stress on his shoulders; he needs somebody, and she’s the only person he has to turn to.

_Don’t hang up, don’t hang up, don’t hang up._

“Harry, you fucked up.”

She didn’t hang up.

He lets out a puff of air he didn’t know he was holding, didn’t know he was gripping. “No shit.”

“I… I can’t tell you what to do, either. I can’t even tell you what I think you should do.”

“That’s okay,” he replies, shuts his eyes again and relaxes into the flat pillow; his hair is down, is a greasy mess of tangled snarls that’s fluffed out about his head, tickling at his cheeks and annoying his ears. “I don’t want you to tell me what to do ‘cause I know what I’m going to do. I just wanted to talk, Gem.”

“Why? Why did you cheat on Lauren? She’s such a nice girl, Harry, and she’s so madly in love with you; anybody can see how much. How could you forget about her?”

“I ―” _Oh_. Oh, Harry’s not been asked that question, not had to think about the why behind the situation. Why did he cheat; why did he kiss Niall again after he was pushed away ― why did he kiss Niall in the first place?

The thing is, Niall’s handsome and attractive in a whimsical, classical sort of way. He’s homegrown and easy-going, simple and soft ― his tummy is sort of pudgy and his eyes are big circles of blue and his nose is a freckled point and his lips light pink and pouty; his hair is blond-brown and his shoulders are darkly-marked from the sun and his thighs are meaty and his calves are thin and his toes are weird.

But there’s planets hidden behind his smiles and stars dusting his laughter, and his eyes hold whole universes. His touch is like an ocean and his care is like a wildfire; his head is a forest full of twists and his mouth is the light shining through the canopy his mind has created and his heart is a meadow littered with the prettiest flowers that are covered in dew, that sparkle in the sun that is his honesty and dance in the wind that is his humor and whistle in the rain that is his sorrow.

He’s made out of everything magical, everything kind and warm and resilient: late-afternoon sunshine and cracked drumsticks and comfy pubs and sticky memories and chilled Corona and knackering greatness and lightning bugs that shine for only one night and driving too slow on dirt roads with the windows down and hugs that hold you together when you’re falling apart and little shrivels of light that shine through the thickness of the forest trees and crippling sincerity.

Niall’s magnificent, and there’s no denying the fact that he fascinates Harry to the point of obsession, that he inspires Harry to climb into the sky and light up the whole world. And he’s beautiful, too ― beautiful in a new way, in a fresh and raw sense: Harry would rather stare at Niall’s flawed perfection than any sky, than any breaking tide over the rocks, than any pretty firework display; Harry would rather listen to Niall’s thoughts and worries and cares and fears than read the most self-provoking book out there. Niall is beautiful in the way that he is someone who Harry wants to spend his life figuring out if it means he gets to be in Niall’s presence, if it means he gets to be there for Niall even if he’s struggling, even if he’s drowning in the waves that are breaking in Niall’s mind.

Niall is a work of art that Harry’s only just now understanding, only just now appreciating.

“Gemma, you didn’t see his face ― you didn’t see his _eyes_ ,” Harry replies, and he doesn’t have any air, doesn’t have any sense, doesn’t have any worry in the world as he remembers Niall’s face, as he recalls the tilted orbit of the universe in Niall’s eyes when they were kissing, when they were touching. Niall’s eyes were wide, and the storms brewing in the deepness of them caught Harry up in a whirlwind of passion, of hidden desire, of ivy-like intimacy that he had no chance of getting out of. He didn’t ― doesn’t want to, anyway. “They were… The ― the colors in his eyes are like the colors I have in my mind, Gemmy, and I’ve never seen something like this before. What I feel ― how I feel when I’m with him is so different from anything I’ve ever experienced.”

“Are you in love him?”

Harry opens his eyes, tries to calm the bedlam-like colors as they flash, as they swirl and change and mix and smear across his vision to blur the darkness he’s hiding in. “I… I don’t think so,” he replies, and he’s telling the truth ― he loves Niall, but he’s not in love with Niall. He can feel it coming, though, and it’s like listening to his favorite song after not hearing it for so long: it’s unfamiliar at first, and then it catches hold of a cognizant bit in his mind, and it’s all he can hear, all he can see. Falling in love is what it feels like to go home after being gone so long. “I’m not in love with him yet, but I know I will be.”

He’s confused about the way he wants Niall, which is like he’s never felt for anybody else before. He knows this deep down, where it’s hidden from sight but felt in the heart and tasted in the soul and heard in the mind. He wants Niall in a way he’s never been told about, in a way he doesn’t know how to describe because words are useless little things that hang off his tongue and lay stagnant in the air.

It’s exciting and scary all at once.

Is that what love feels like?

“Love isn’t pretty, Harry, and you know this,” she says, and Harry’s chest tightens because he knows it’s coming, because he knows she’s going to try to help him fix himself. “Sometimes you spend all your time hoping that it’ll be different, that it’ll be better, and before you know it ten years has passed, and you lost your heart somewhere in the madness, and you realize that forcing yourself to feel is only delaying your happiness.”

Gemma’s quiet again; Harry feels warm, feels hot in a way that’s welcoming, that’s comforting and supportive. It’s different talking to his sister than it is talking to his friends, to his best friend ― Gemma saw him through his life, filmed his Christmas pageant at age seven and shaved his eyebrows at eleven and got into a fight with a pushy ex-girlfriend at fourteen and painted his nails at sixteen and cried on his shoulder at eighteen when she was going on to further her education and he was staying in the UK.

She’s been there ― his friends know, but she _saw_ , and that’s what makes all the difference.

“Harry ―”

“I just want to fix it all, Gemmy. I want to fix myself and I want to fix Niall and I want to fix Lauren ― and I want to fix all the wrongs I’ve done and fix all the people I’ve pissed off and fix all the nasty stuff I made when I was being stupid. I’m ― I’m a failure, and I’m terrible at being true to who I am and what I know, but I want to fix everything. _Everything_.”

“Do not call yourself a failure, Harry Styles,” she says, warns, and her voice is hard but it’s full of emotion, full of worry and strained impatience and Harry’s messed it up again. “Stop saying you’re a failure, Haz. You ― there are colors in your mind and flowers in your heart, and you are a fucking work of art that I don’t understand but I love completely. You are not a failure, and you never have been. You won’t ever be, either.”

Her words make his heart swell, make his mind swim. “But Gem ―”

“Self-love is bloody important, Harry, but self-awareness is probably more needed than anything,” she cuts him off, huffs a breath and grunts. “Sometimes you need to know enough about yourself to step back and… and admit that you’re an asshole even if you don’t want to.”

_What?_

“Say it.”

Harry frowns, rubs at the crinkled skin between his eyes. “Say what?”

“Say you’re an asshole,” she answers, and she’s being completely honest, totally sincere, and Harry detests how she can tear him apart and put him together all at once. “Say you are an asshole, Harry.”

“I ―” _bloody fuck, this is ignorant_ , “― I’m an asshole.”

And he is, isn’t he?

“It’s not your job to fix them, either,” she continues, and Harry’s still reeling with confusion, with self-loathing and self-perception. “You can stand there and help them, pat their back and give them love when they need it, but you are not supposed to be the one to fix them. Fix yourself, and let them fix themselves too.”

“I ― I’m trying, Gem. I’m trying, but it’s hard”

“I know.” She sighs, lets out a hard breath that Harry feels on the back of his neck thousands of miles away. “I know you are, and I know this will ― the mess you’ve made will get better. Things will work out, you know. Even if it isn’t okay for a long time, or even if it feels like things aren’t ever going to change or be right again, everything works out in the way it’s supposed to at the end of the day. And ― and Harry, you’re _incredible_. You are incredible, and there’s nothing you can’t do.”

Harry shuts his eyes, basks in the heat that flows over his body, that finds the ice in his veins and melts it till it’s water, till it’s a rush of courage, a path of bravery, a load of faith that makes him swoon, that makes him grow and grow and grow.

He doesn’t know what to do, can’t see a light at the end of the tunnel he’s found himself in; his mind is a wreck and his throat is a clenching and his stomach is a freight train that rockets through his body and shakes him till he can breathe again, rattles him till he can see again.

It’s going to be okay ― it’s going to be okay because Gemma said so, and she’s never lied to him. She’ll tell you the truth, and she won’t sugarcoat anything, and he believes her because she trusts in him and he isn’t going to give up since she has absolute faith in him.

He’s not going to give up on himself, on Niall. He’ll go however far he needs in order to keep the hope of love alive. Through hell and high water ― it doesn’t matter because Harry isn’t going to give up now that he knows he’s strong enough to change into the person he always thought he was.


	27. twenty-seven

Niall hums, swaying his hips and bobbing his head to the beat of John Mellencamp ― because his Christmas gift from his mother arrived early this morning, and inside of the box was the vinyl records she bought as a young girl, when her hair was streaked with pink and purple and her wardrobe consisted of whatever Joan Jett was into at the time, as well as the record player she’s had for years, too, with scuffs and scratches and little names carved into the wood ― as he takes down the tacked photos he’s put up on the little bulletin board he’s had since he was eighteen.

The photos are of him and Harry ― at Wembley Stadium, at graduation, at parties and study sessions and get-togethers and impromptu games of football in the middle of the night in the cold park right next to the university. The memories each little piece of frozen time holds makes Niall warm on the inside; he’ll never forget Harry’s smile when he stole the ball from Niall, he’ll never forget Harry’s horrible singing and hoarse tone or the karaoke sessions at a café after the Queen concert, he’ll never forget the bright sparkles of light in Harry’s eyes when they announced his name to walk across the stage and receive the diploma he worked his ass off to secure, he’ll never forget the ink stains around Harry’s lips as he chewed on the ends of his pens during midterms and finals when he didn’t leave Niall’s room, when he didn’t leave Niall’s side.

Just because the photos aren’t hanging up, aren’t being shown off to the world, aren’t constantly there to remind Niall of all the good times he has had doesn’t mean he will forget the way he felt in those moments.

But ― right now, at this very moment, he needs them gone, needs them down so he doesn’t look at them, so he doesn’t stare at them, so he doesn’t waste away memorizing the contours of Harry’s face and the deepness of Harry’s dimples and the sparkles that glint and glimmer and glow in Harry’s eyes.

Niall won’t forget, but he needs to get better, needs to start living for himself instead of Harry, and in beginning that transition, he can’t constantly be interrupted by Harry’s face like he always has been before.

He just… he just wants to get better. He wants Harry to get better, too, and ― and if being away from one another for some time, if not speaking or seeing or touching is the only way to secure their health, mentally and physically and emotional, so be it.

He’ll do whatever he needs to in order to fix himself, in order for Harry to fix himself. He just wants to be okay ― he just wants everything to be okay.

Last night is a blur of rushed scenes in his mind; he remembers the kisses and touches and words and promises and looks Harry gave him, leveled with him, tattooed on his skin and drew over his heart, but he also recalls Lauren’s ring and the proposal and rushing out after Harry said yes, because Harry said yes after asking Niall for time, after asking Niall to try to understand what he’s dealing with. He remembers leaving ― leaving the party, leaving Harry behind ― remembers Harry catching up to him; he remembers the look on Harry’s face and how it felt to watch as the lights in Harry’s eyes dimmed till they were no longer there, till they were little pinpricks of memory in the back of his mind that he hopes he’ll see again and again and again. But, most of all ― above it all ― he remembers the confession.

He’s told Harry he’s in love with him. He literally screamed and raged and forced Harry to realize how Niall feels ― _I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you._

Harry knows Niall is in love with him. Harry knows, and he let Niall go. _He let Niall go._

And it’s a thought at the front of Niall’s mind, an ache in the sole of his feet, a hidden cut in the bend of his finger ― he can’t shake it, can’t heal, can’t ignore it. It’s there, and it’s never going away, never going to shrink or shiver or shudder. It’s not going anywhere because there’s nowhere for it to go.

He feels relieved, though, in the easiest of ways; he’s kept that secret to himself for years ― _years_ : he fell in love with Harry when he was eighteen, and he’s twenty-two now, and four years of pining, of lying and hiding and keeping himself locked away ― and now that it’s out in the open, now that it’s out for the whole world to see, Niall feels relieved, feels as if he’s taken the largest weight off of his shoulders.

But now that it’s off his shoulders, off his heart and out of his soul, it’s weighing on somebody else’s, isn’t it?

Niall took off his load and gave it to Harry, didn’t he?

How fitting. How fitting it is that Niall’s going up and Harry’s going down.

There’s a knock at the door, a little bang that cuts through the music that’s taking over Niall’s mind; Niall puts the photos down in a box he found and weaves out of his bedroom, into the corridor and through the living room, slipping around on the hardwood with his fuzzy, decorated socks. With a pounding heart and an aching soul, he looks through the peephole, more than a bit elated to see that Lauren is on the other side with a bag in one hand and a beanie in the other.

It’s not Harry. It isn’t Harry because it’s Lauren. It’s his cousin.

Chuckling, shaking his head ― she’s never been one to call to announce her presence, you know, and it’s kind of warming to see that she hasn’t changed very much since she was an awkward teenager in Mullingar with braces and acne ― Niall flicks the deadbolt and turns the lock and opens the door up wide; her face lights up, kind of, and she smiles as she steps inside, as she nudges her shoulder into Niall’s with a playful wink.

“Oh, you’re listening to John,” she muses, moving further into the flat and setting her bag on the sofa; the song is a fuzzy background noise in the air as Niall shuts the door and turns the lock to void off any unwanted visitors. “You got Maura’s gift then?”

Niall turns to her, gives her a look. “You knew Mum was going to send me the vinyls and record player?” he asks, raises a brow; usually Lauren can’t hold water for more than two hours, but here she is keeping something like this from Niall, and even after the pact he and her made in the top loft of their grandfather’s old barn years ago.

Wow. She’s gotten far, hasn’t she?

“Dad may or may not have let it slip a few months back when he and I were chatting on the phone.”

“What the hell, Lauren?” Niall exclaims, lets out a noise and strides forward, dropping down onto the chair with a huff; he’s not slept much, been on his feet longer than he dreamed, and he wasn’t aware of how tired he was till Lauren arrived. “What happened to that pact we made when I was ten?”

She laughs, throws her head back and lets out a loud guffaw as she falls over the back of the couch and situates herself comfortably ― well, as comfortably as she can in the thick layers she’s wearing. “When we promised to tell one another what the other was getting for Christmas if we were able to find out?”

Niall nods, running a hand through his messy hair as he flashes her a cheeky grin that makes her giggle some more. “The very same one.”

She rolls her eyes. “If you recall, Ni, I was the one that kept up that bargain,” she replies, sticking her tongue out immaturely at Niall’s furrowed brows, and he makes a face in return. “You are the one who didn’t tell me about the car I was getting.”

“You knew you were getting that car ever since you were fifteen, Lauren! I can’t tell you something you already knew!”

“Excuses, excuses,” she snorts, rolling her eyes and waving off Niall’s words with a flick of her wrist. “You’re just making up fibs to make yourself sound better.”

Niall blinks. “I will hit you in the throat,” he says, warns ― and the thing is, he will; he doesn’t like to hit anybody, whether they be male or female or something else, but being family kind of gives you the right to throttle one another, in a way, and he’ll wrestle Lauren to the ground because he knows she’ll come after him just as fiercely, too.

“I will cut your dick off.”

 _Oh_. Oh, she is _mean_.

“All right.” Niall moves his hands, covers up his crotch; Lauren laughs, tries to smother the noise behind her gloved hand. “Chill out, wild beast. Should’ve got you a cage for Christmas instead of that purse. Such a shame. I don’t think you deserve it now.”

“You got me a purse?” she repeats, scrambling to sit properly; her eyes are wide and her face is bare from makeup with little streaks of red that the wind must’ve burned into her skin, and she looks like a kid on Christmas morning. “Really?”

“Relax, beast,” Niall says, holds his hands up. “It’s not Gucci or Saint Laurent or anything, but it’s made of a good material that’ll last, and I think you’ll like it.”

“Oh, Niall, you can give me a jar of dirt and I’ll keep it forever ‘cause it’s from you,” she says, and she’s up then, rushing forward and falling into Niall’s lap as she wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes and squeezes and squeezes. She smells like vanilla bean and chocolate chip cookies and it makes Niall smile till his cheeks hurt as he embraces her back just as tight. “I love you, silly boy. You’re one of my most favorite people in the whole bloody world.”

Niall giggles, puts his face in her shoulder and laughs along with her ― this reminds him of all the holidays they spent with one another, of taking sips from whatever drink they could find lying around and wadding wrapping paper into balls to have fights with and waking up early on Christmas morning to prepare a decent breakfast of cereal and cold toast for their parents because they deserved something good, too.

“Aren’t you ― I thought you were catching a flight to Mullingar today?” he asks once he’s calmed down, once she’s sobered and situated herself more comfortably across Niall’s legs. “I thought Harry said ― you’re going home?”

“I’m on my way to the airport right now, actually,” she answers, picking at a rip in the pair of jeans she’s wearing. They’re old and worn, and it’s kind of weird seeing her in casual clothes when she’s usually wearing silk suits and designer dresses and shoes that cost more than Niall’s rent. “I wanted to stop by here to ask you a question first.”

“Oh?” Niall raises a brow, moves his bum and tries to alleviate the heaviness on his legs; Lauren isn’t overly large by no means, but she’s gained a bit of weight in the last few months, and while she looks more round and fuller and beautiful than before, Niall’s never been superman and he wilts under the weight of the toddlers that used to rush him at the supermarket. “Ask away, wild beast.”

“Hush up, piss face.” She swats at his chest, flicks his cheek. “I came by to ask you if you wouldn’t mind tagging along with me to go dress shopping when I come back January fifth.”

Niall’s nose crinkles and he raises a brow. “Dress shopping?” he repeats, relatively confused.

_What is she talking about?_

Lauren nods, allows a small smile of total elation to tug at her lips till it’s a blinding grin that’s stealing Niall’s sight. “Yeah. I want you there with me when I find a wedding dress, Ni.” She shrugs, continues to pick at the tear in her jeans till the hole is a bit bigger than before ― and it kind of feels like the rip in Niall’s heart, you know, because it keeps getting larger and larger and larger, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He can’t do anything about it because he gave somebody his heart when he knew ― he knew they didn’t want it.

It’s his fault. All of it is his fault.  

“Isn’t it a bit soon to be looking for a dress?” he asks, tries not to wince as images flash through his mind, over and over and over ― Harry looks dashing in a suit and Lauren can steal the breath from an entire room when she’s wearing a gown, and they look so good together, so complementary and sophisticated because Harry’s dark and Lauren’s light. They’re going to look so, so good together at the altar, and Niall’s happy and sad all at once. “I mean, you only proposed yesterday ― you have a little bit of time to figure all of that out, don’t you?”

How ironic ― he’s the one desperately pleading for time now when he wouldn’t give it to Harry. Karma’s a bitch, and it seems she’s turning on him now.

“Harry and I talked this morning ― he’s on his way to Cheshire right now, and he told me he’s going to stop by to see you when he gets back to give you your gifts ― and we decided to get married in February in Ireland because it’s the only time Gemma’s able to come back before October.”

Niall blinks, tries to not allow his emotions flicker and flash over his face because if he did ― if he gave his heart and soul free reign, Lauren would know. Lauren would know that he’s in love with Harry, that he’s touched Harry, that he’s kissed Harry and brought him to the brink of pleasure and kept him there, over and over and over.

If Niall allotted his heart and soul to take over his speech, his rational thinking, Lauren would know absolutely everything.

But what good would that do? Telling her the truth ― telling her Niall’s in love with Harry, telling her Harry wants him more than he wants her ― will only break her heart, and he does not want her to experience everything he’s felt, everything he’s feeling. He wants her happy ― he wants her happy and secure, because if she’s smiling, he will be, too.

He loves her. He loves his cousin to the moon and back, over the stars and around the black holes and through the nebulas, and he would do anything for her. Absolutely anything. If she’s happy, he’ll be happy ― because her smile and her laugh is almost as important to Niall as Harry’s, really, and the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, yes, but Lauren was there before Harry.

“Why do you want me to go?” he asks, whispers; he’s quiet because he can’t get loud, because he won’t be loud. He just wants to be silent, silent, silent. It’s been too noisy, too thunderous lately, what with all the yelling and crying and such, and he just wants some quiet time to himself.

He deserves that, doesn’t he?

She smiles. “I’ve not spent very much time with you lately, and last night made me realize how I’ve missed you,” she replies, and ― and her eyes are kind of watering, and if she’s going to cry, Niall will too. He’s on the ledge, and she’s the anchor that’s going to pull him down if she doesn’t stop. “I just want hang out with you for more than a few hours at a time.”

“Like it used to be?” Niall asks, grins.

She nods. “Yeah ― yeah, like it used to be,” she replies, and her dark eyes are still kind of blurry, still kind of wet, but at least she isn’t going to cry now, at least she isn’t going to drag Niall down. “How… Last night, when you rushed out ― Ni, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He nods ― over and over and over, trying to convince her just as much as himself. “Yeah. Just ―” _lie, lie, lie,_ “― I wasn’t feeling well, Lauren. I didn’t want to make anybody else sick.”

“I thought Harry was lying when he told me that,” she admits, shrugs and kicks off her shoes; they fall and hit the floor with a loud thump, and Niall rolls his eyes because she is still a mess. _Wow_. “I’m glad he wasn’t. And I wished you would’ve said something instead of running out like that, Ni. I would’ve taken you home so you didn’t have to walk in the cold to catch the bus.”

Niall bites his lip, refrains from telling her that he walked the entire way home in the cold, in the spitting snow; he couldn’t cry because the tears froze on his eyelashes before they could fall. At least he isn’t sick, though.

“It…  It just kind of hit all at once,” he replies, tries to take a little bit of the attention off of him. He doesn’t like being questioned, doesn’t like being called out, and he’s thickly grateful that his and Harry’s stories match up so well. “You ― Harry’s coming over? When is he going to be back?”

“He left at the ass crack of down this morning, and I think he said he’ll be back sometime tomorrow,” she replies, crinkling her brows as she tries to remember just what Harry must’ve said earlier this morning. “You ― It’ll be good to spend some time with him, yeah? You two haven’t ― it’ll be good, won’t it?”

“Yeah.” Niall sighs, runs a hand over his face as he tries to calm his racing heart, as he tries to soothe the trepidation that’s making his throat hurt as if it’s on fire, as if he’s swallowed acid. “Yeah. It’ll be good.”

-

Niall brings his hands up to his mouth and rubs them together, blows on his fingers as he strides up the walk that leads to Harry’s house; everything is locked, and the key that’s in his pocket is burning a hole, cutting through his skin as it begs, as it pleads and prays to open up the warm home that Niall never thought he’d leave.

But he did. He did, didn’t he? Of his own accord, too. Lauren may have prompted his departure and Louis may have attempted to force him to conform to what was thought to be the best for him, but in the end, it was Niall who broke the news to Harry, Niall who packed up his bags, Niall who decided to leave the happiness and home he had created with his favorite people behind.

It was Niall. It was all Niall.

He’ll gladly take the blame, too. He’s got nothing to hide from anymore.

He hops up the steps, side-eyes the bastard snowman he kicked down last night, notices there’s an indention on the side of its head; he’s careful as he walks across the porch, as he steadies his stride on the icy wood, as he stills his wobbling legs. He doesn’t want to fall and damage the gifts he’s got tucked beneath his overcoat or harm himself in any way.

He doesn’t want Harry to know he’s here just yet.

He decided that the best way to not see Harry is to take advantage of him being away and drop off the gifts so he doesn’t have to run in to his best friend, the love of his life that he’s never going to forget, that he’s never going to get over. And if braving the late-evening blizzard outside in Louis’s borrowed car ― he asked to use it, you know, dropped off Louis and Kamryn’s gifts and wished Louis a happy birthday before leaving with the promise to be safe and careful and smart ― in order to avoid Harry secures what little bit of progress he’s made, so be it.

So fucking be it. He’s tired of being a little cat with no heart, with no bravery ― he’s a lion, the fierce king of the jungle, and he isn’t going to tuck tail and run like he has so many times before.

There’s nothing worth running from.

He giggles at his thoughts ― he isn’t talking to himself, per se, but his mind is quite funny, and if only his tongue would curve around the words his brain wants to say, he’d be a hit and a legend all around the world ― and unzips his dark gray overcoat, taking out Lauren’s purse and Harry’s note.

Her purse ― it’s Coach, and the pattern is dark squares and rectangles that fit well together, and though it isn’t very expensive, it’ll last for a few years, and it’s the thought that matters, anyway ― is wrapped in plastic and shoved inside of a snowman-covered sack for safe-keeping; he doesn’t want to tarnish the leather or risk the chance of it getting wet from the drizzling snow.

Harry has a note. Originally, he was going to get the extra key to Niall’s flat in case he ever needed to get away and spend some time with Niall, pretending everything is how it used to be, but Harry doesn’t deserve that thoughtful gift anymore, and it’s too late to get him something now. Niall kind of needs to save the rest of his money, anyway.

So Harry’s getting his key back.

All five of them had a key made for the house; Louis, Liam, and Zayn still have theirs, and it’s either put up or hanging with their other keys or worn around their neck on a chain, but Niall doesn’t want his. Not anymore. He has no reason to need it now.

Harry isn’t worth it.

He wrote a note, too, explaining to Harry why this is happening, why he’s doing what he is. And it’s kind of stupid, kind of childish and idiotic, really, to be spitting all his thoughts out a wrinkled piece of paper that’s folded inside of an envelope with a key inside and his name written across the cover in scribbled letters, but he needs Harry to know ― to know that he’s done wrong, to know that everything he’s destroyed is going to take a while to fix, if at all ― and he can’t see Harry, can’t touch or smell or taste Harry till he knows, in his mind, he’s wanted.

Niall doesn’t know what else to do, really, but he knows he’ll figure it all out soon. He isn’t a coward, and he’s going to get better ― he’s going to make it, with or without Harry, and it’s funny, kind of, because he doesn’t care either way.

 

 


	28. twenty-eight

With a sigh and a yawn, Harry turns off his car and rubs at his blurry, snow-blind eyes; it’s Christmas Day, and he’s been up since five-thirty, attempting to figure out the system his mum bought to video chat with Gemma so she’s here even though she isn’t and helping his grandmother cook a large family breakfast. His backseat is filled with the gifts he got from his family ― boots and watches and vintage band t-shirts (his uncle Tobias is quite the character, you know, and the man has been to more concerts, standing front row and belting out the lyrics to every song with friends on either side that were going just as wild, than Harry has school days, it seems, and now that he’s getting into his older age and can’t fit his clothes, he’s handing them down to Harry, which Harry does not mind because he sometimes feels like he was born in the wrong time period) and expensive cologne and multi-colored scarfs that are “sure to match whatever eccentric outfit you’re wearing at the moment, dear”, according to his great aunt Ophelia, and loads of socks and sweaters and underwear to last for a decade, at least.

There’s also gifts for his friends ― Louis and Kamryn got a yellow-themed album they’re sure to fill up with photos of the little baby girl when she arrives; Liam got a stunning collection of ties with assorted colors and styles that Harry may or may not be jealous of; Zayn got a box of charcoal pencils and oil-based chalk that’s sure to come in handy at one point or another; Lauren got an old-fashioned music box that’s been hand-painted and refurbished to be a sort of jewelry keeper that he’s sure she’ll use for years and years and years, even if they aren’t together in the end.

And Niall got a box full of film for the Polaroid camera Harry bought him.

Harry bought Niall a camera because, though Niall loves to draw and paint and sketch and fold pieces of paper into the prettiest shapes one has ever seen, he also enjoys photography; years of being in the same house, in the same room with Niall has forced a sense into Harry that he hopes he never lets go of, and he wants Niall to enjoy the gift Harry spent hours planning out even if he’s upset with the way Harry’s been acting.

Harry’s quite upset with himself, as well.  

Originally, Niall was going to get concert tickets to see Tori Kelley when she came to the UK in March for a three-day stop at Wembley ― but that changed into a new set of boots and a pressed, navy-colored tux that was sure to impress the curator at the museum when he went in to interview and a collection of scratched, wilted photographs he found hidden beneath a dusty shelf at a thrift store and a stack of all the CDs ever put out by Bachman-Turner Overdrive.

But Harry settled on a Polaroid because he knows Niall use the camera, over and over and over, and he wants that, wants Niall to remember him every time he looks at the device, every time he touches the mechanism, every time he gazes through the lens to snap photo after photo after photo.

Is it selfish of him to hope that he’s one of the first pictures Niall takes? Is it?

If Niall doesn’t want Harry, that’s okay. That’s okay, but Harry wants Niall, and he isn’t going to stop till he has Niall. He isn’t going to leave Lauren, no ― they made plans to get married in mid-February because that’s the only time Gemma’s going to be in from the States before October, and Harry isn’t sure if he would be able to wait that long, isn’t sure if he could hold the promise he made to himself for that long; besides, he kind of needs his sister a tiny bit at the moment ― and the only way the wedding will be called off is if she says so, but he wants Niall.

He wants ― he needs Niall. He really, really needs Niall.

Harry’s always been told, always been reminded to not plant his happiness in one person, to not hope that the flowers of love and life and fulfillment will grow inside of somebody else’s heart because sometimes people leave, and you’re left with nothing but the roots of a garden you fought so hard to complete. Harry’s always thought it’s generally better to make himself into a happy little dandelion before sharing his pretty, pretty petals with the rest of the world, but he can’t help it.

When it comes to Niall, Harry can’t help himself.

He needs Niall like wedding dresses need dirt, like photographs need streaks of red and orange and yellow on the outer edges to smear what’s tangled on the inside, like all good actions need certain bad things to even out the lightness in the world.

He needs Niall, and Niall doesn’t need him, but that’s okay.

It’s okay.

It’s okay to want somebody who doesn’t want you back as long as they’re worth it, Harry’s learned, and Niall ― well, Niall’s worth the whole world, isn’t he?

Lauren’s gone to Ireland ― she called before she boarded her plane yesterday, as he asked her to, and she’s staying till January fifth, which is in eleven days; she needs to see her parents, though, needs to report back to her and Niall’s family about everything that’s gone on so Niall doesn’t have to face their judging and limitless accusations that are sure to be brought up should he let slip everything that’s happened ― and Louis is with Kamryn’s family and Liam is held up with his pushy mum and sisters and Zayn is chilling in his cabin and Niall’s here.

Niall’s here, and Harry’s here, and Lauren’s gone, and ― and when the cat is away, the mice tend to play, as they say.

And, oh, how the mouse is ready to play. 

Harry sighs, pulls his keys out of the ignition and opens the car door; a blast of blunt wind shoves hard into him as he steps out, as he wraps his overcoat tighter around himself and tugs his beanie a little bit further over his forehead to fend off the beating attack.

He’s cold. He’s cold, and he hates being cold. Yuck.

He groans, tenses his body against the wind and jerks open the door to the backseat, reaching in and grabbing all that he can, grabbing everything that he can ― there’s sacks hanging from his arms and bags weighing on his fingers and backpacks dangling from his shoulders, and it’s cold and he hates being cold and he’s just glad, _so glad_ , this part of London is more or less deserted at this time of the year as he darts across the street without looking both ways, hoping for the best but expecting the worse.

The street is slick and his feet slide; shivers of heat crawl up his spine and he curses, slows his pace to a steady, secure gait as he makes his way onto the opposite walk where his car is parked. He steps up and over a knee-high wall of snow that’s been pushed off of the concrete, makes a noise in the back of his throat as a bit of the wet slush is kicked up onto the back of his jeans.

Fuck. It’s cold ― it’s cold, and Harry hates being cold and the whole bloody place seems deserted and his arms are full, and if he falls, if he hits his face on the ground and knocks himself out, he’s going to die. He’s going to die from the weather, from hypothermia, from a concussion ― nobody’s here, and he isn’t quite sure where his cellphone is because he tossed it into the backseat after Lauren text and asked him to call her for a moment.

He can’t fall. Holy shit, he can’t fall.

Once he’s made it to the top of the stoop ― he may or may not have broken a record with how many prayers he sent to whomever decided to want to listen to his pitiful ramblings ― without injury, he fiddles about with his pant pocket, digging and wiggling his fingers till he grasps hold of his keys; it takes a moment, but when the door is unlocked and opened, he shoves it wide and steps inside, darting toward the living room.

It’s dark in the house and kind of cold; he makes his way toward the sofa, carefully setting everything down on the cushions, flicking the lamp on to shed of light on the blackness. He’ll have to drop off everybody’s gifts when they return, and that won’t be for a few days.

They’re all spending New Years together. That is, he hopes the plans they made at the dinner the other is still stands.

First, though ― before he goes through his dirty laundry, before he sorts through the gifts, before he puts everything in its proper place, before he texts Lauren in reply to the message she sent three hours ago, before he calls his mum and lets her know he’s made it back to London safe and sound and relatively sane ― he’s going to Niall’s.

He’s going over to Niall’s flat to hand-deliver the gift he’s so, so proud of.

And ― and Grace’s, too, because she’s a very nice girl and a legendary person, and she deserves a gift from him, as well, even though she’s sort of mean to him at times. Doesn’t matter, though ― she’s only trying to help, and Harry appreciates her in ways he never thought he would.

So… So he got her a candle.

She got a candle. But… But it’s cute, you know, colored up like faded sunshine and wrapped in a ribbon with intricate designs drawn on the outside. It’s ― it’s a candle, but his mum’s neighbor is really fucking cool in the sense that he makes his own, and he handwrites a poem he writes that’s inspired by the process (odd, but cool, all right?) and tapes it to the outer glass, where he draws designs and traces over them with ink to make sure they stay.

It’s a candle, but it’s not a normal candle.

It’s the thought that counts, okay?

Okay.

As long as he’s happy with what he’s done, that’s all that matters, really. He’s just doing his best, and he’s praying it’s good enough.

He just has to find Niall and Grace’s gifts first, before he takes off toward Niall’s flat. How fun.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat as he feels a draft of icy air smash into his back; he pivots on his heel and stalks into the foyer, stopping to fiddle with the thermostat for a single moment. The door is opened wide and a bit of the dusty snow that’s been blown onto the porch is dancing in the air, waltzing inside with its windy partner in crime, and though he enjoys winter, he hates the wetness, hates the cold, hates the mush that’s always left behind to be dealt with.

He reaches out, grabs the burning-cold doorknob and jerks it shut ― but it doesn’t shut. Instead, it gets caught on a bit of blue-colored paper that’s in the way, stuck between the door and the frame, hanging in the postbox that’s just to the right.

Harry frowns, steps outside of the house and onto the porch, curling around the door with crinkled brows and cautious steps ― boots are slick no matter what kind of sole you have, mind you, and he doesn’t fancy breaking his tailbone again after that wild day in grade 7. Stuffed into the gold-painted postbox is a blue sack decorated in cute snowmen, and he slants his head, wrinkles his lips and scratches at the tip of his red nose.

Odd.

Odd, but not entirely strange. This has happened a few times, believe it or not, and Harry just wonders how he missed the fluorescent thing on his way in, really.

With shaking fingers ― it’s cold, and he hates the cold, and he also doesn’t like wearing gloves, either; they make him sweat, and it feels as if he can’t move his hands properly, feels as if he’s constricted in the one of the worst ways, he thinks ― he reaches out, grabs the package out of the postbox and opens it gingerly, tentatively.

Inside is a plastic-wrapped brown bag of some sort, and he kind of knows without officially knowing that this is Niall’s doing, really. He reaches in, pulls the plastic out and folds the bag under his arm as he tears at the wrapping; it’s a purse, and on it there is squares and rectangles folded and stitched and stuck together, colored with all sorts of browns, and Harry kind of laughs, kind of smiles because of course ― of course the artist of the group decides to pick out something artistic for the least-arty person they all know.

Lauren’s going to love it, though. She’s going to absolutely adore the purse.

He folds the plastic back around the purse as well as he can ― his fingers are numb, for fuck’s sake, and he isn’t much of a fixer; he’s quite better at breaking things, it seems ― and takes the bag out from beneath his shoulder, opening it wide to shove the item back in. However, at the bottom of the bag is an envelope, and with a furrowed brow and crinkled nose, he reaches in and grabs it.

Flipping it over, he sees that his name is scribbled across the front, and it’s Niall’s handwriting, Harry knows, because Niall always gets lazy on double letters and meshes them together to make a smeared, messy conjunction that’s just barely legible enough to be read. He is careful as he opens the envelope, easy as he rips the top off and fiddles with the folded piece of paper inside because he wants to cherish every single thing that Niall touched, it seems.

Oh. Oh, he’s in deep, isn’t he?

A key falls out, almost slipping through the cracks of the porch, and Harry can’t feel the cold around him anymore as it billows, as it rages and whines and simmers like a bit of hot lava all around him, over and over and over, tearing at his ears and cutting at his face and ripping at his neck and shredding his clothes.

It’s Niall’s key. It’s Niall’s key to the house, isn’t it?

Oh. Okay.

Harry’s hands aren’t shaking anymore, and he’s no longer cold, no longer afraid for his life on the icy porch as he slowly, slowly opens the folded piece of paper; it’s a little letter, he realizes, and it’s smudged and marked and kind of creased, and the words are written in both pen and pencil, and it’s a mess ― it’s a mess, but this is so, _so_ Niall, and Harry can’t help but let out a tiny smile as he begins to read the pitiful thing.

_Merry Christmas, Harry. I hope you’re having a good one, and that you’re getting a lot of the rest I know you need. If it matters to you, I am ― I’m having a really nice time. My mum gave me her old vinyls and record player and my dad sent over a few t-shirts he had saved up from his younger years (I hope your uncle Tobias remembers to give you those shirts of his because I know how much you’ve been wanting those things, and if he did we could match one of these days!). I call dibs on being Joey Ramone, though ― you make a better Mick Jagger than me, lovely._

Niall drew a smiley face right in the middle of the letter. The goddamn nerve he has makes Harry want to swoon and cry all at once because it should not be possible for someone to be cute as hell and sexy as fuck all at once.

_I’m giving you the key I have to your house because I don’t want it anymore. I don’t think I need it. And I’m sorry for doing this on Christmas, by the way, because that’s kind of a shit day for a lot of people. Everything’s so busy, and a lot of the times we’re all so busy thinking of others that we forget about ourselves. I’m thinking about myself now, Harry._

He is. He is, isn’t he? And ― and that just kind of makes Harry smile a little bit bigger, a little bit brighter. Niall isn’t just a star for Harry because he’s the entire sky.

_You were supposed to get the spare key to my flat, but I don’t think you’re in the position to deserve something like that from me at the moment. Not after what’s happened between you and me, at least. You can’t blame me, though, can you? Do you?_

No. No, not at all. Absolutely not, and he definitely won’t, either. Harry can’t settle any blame on Niall because there kind of isn’t anything to fault him for other than shitty timing and poor decision-making skills, really, and that’s more or less fate’s doing.

_I need you to know, though, that I’m going to hold on to this key and I want you to keep up with mine, too, because one of these days, when you and I are on good terms again and Lauren is happy and you’re happy and I’m happy and I can let you touch me without wanting to cry and you can touch me without hurting me, I would like it back. And when you give it back, I’ll give you the spare to mine, too. I don’t want to be away from you because you are my best friend. You’re one of the most important people in my life, and I love you. I’m in love with you ― I would probably do anything you asked of me, and that’s good but it’s also really, really bad, too. But you know that, don’t you? You’re really smart, Harry, and when you take the time to see things for what they really are, you can do whatever you want. You’re incredible in my eyes._

Harry stops for a moment, moves his eyes to stare down at the key that’s on the wood; he remembers going to get it, remembers goofing off with Niall and unleashing a load of paint onto the floor of the hardware store while they waited for the copy to be made. It was fun ― it was fun, and Niall was laughing and Harry was crying, kind of, and Louis was trying to hurry the process along quicker and Liam was worried about the police and Zayn was making his way back toward the vehicle parked in the lot and Harry really should’ve seen it before.

Looking back at all the little things, all the big things, all the good and bad and ugly and beautiful, it’s so clear, and he should’ve known. _He should have known_.

But, the question is, if he had known, would it have changed anything? Would he have felt for Niall then what he feels now?

_I hope you don’t hate me. I mean, I know you don’t hate me because I saw the stars in your eyes go out that night, and the colors in your voice were kind of dark, too. I just don’t want you to be mad at me for not stopping by to deliver your gift in person, and Lauren not getting hers till she gets back is her punishment. Ask her about the pact we made when I saw ten. It makes for a really great story, and she would love to tell you._

Harry shakes his head; he knows all about that little promise they made to one another because Niall is a cozy, sloppy, cuddly, forgettable drunk who will make friends with a wet cat if he’s able.

_I love you. And I’m in love with you, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop. But that’s okay ― I swear to you it’s okay. Somebody once told me it was okay to love somebody that doesn’t love you back as long as they’re worth you loving them, and you’re worth it. You weren’t before, but I kind of think you are now. I don’t want anybody if I can’t have you. Merry Christmas, Harry. I’ll see you soon._

Harry folds the paper into the rectangle it was before and puts it back into its little envelope; he moves around, walks into the house and shuts the door behind him. His back hits the wall, and in his left hand is Lauren’s gift and in his right is Niall’s note, and he drops both things to the ground with a shiver as he falls to his knees, as he slumps his shoulders and allows the bright color in his heart turn dark.

He puts his face in his hands and screams and screams and screams, but no one hears a thing.

-

Harry exits the elevator in a rush, slams into a young man with a little girl attached at his hip; he apologizes profusely as he picks up the card for the child with the hand that isn’t occupied holding gifts before running off down the corridor toward Niall’s door with a giddy smile and a crooked gait.

He’s changed into something more comfortable now, though his overcoat is still a heavy weight on his shoulders that’s keeping him quite cozy from the ugliness outside, and he can run easier now that he isn’t wearing his overly-used, bare boots with a poor excuse for a sole.

His sister has good taste, it seems, and Oklahoma City has a mall that Harry wouldn’t mind flying over to shop in, as well, if boots are always as cheap there as she says they are.

Once he’s found Niall’s room number, he stops, skids to halt that makes his ankle protest in irritation ― he may have slipped and fallen on his bum in a fit of speed to get to Niall as quick as he can, and in the process of landing on the ground, he caught his ankle in a little hole, as well ― though he ignores the jolt of pain that makes his leg twitch.

He can make a trip to the hospital later. Right now, Niall is his priority, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

Well, that isn’t true, is it? He’d rather be inside of Niall’s flat where it’s warm, where he can twine his arms around Niall’s neck and Niall can wrap him up tight, tight, tight, but he doesn’t want to take things too quickly now that he’s figured out what he’s going to do.

Standing out in the corridor and having a conversation through the door is just fine with him.

It’s kind of romantic, too, in a strange way ― but Harry’s a strange boy, and that’s all right.

It’s all right because Gemma said so, because Niall said so, and he’s going to believe in them since he isn’t sure if he can believe in himself at the moment.

He raises his hand, curls it into a fist and knocks on the door once, twice, three times, pausing only to knock three more; it takes a moment, but he hears a bit of rustling on the other side, and as the door opens, as Harry sees Niall’s preciousness ― he’s lazy today, it seems, wearing sweats and a hoodie with flat hair and a fresh face and sleepy smile and puffy eyes ― Harry grabs the knob, jerks it closed and holds it tight as Niall attempts to budge Harry’s grip.

“Harry? Harry, let me open the door.”

Harry shakes his head. “No,” he replies, soft and giddy and kind of tired, kind of stressed. “I don’t want to make you hurt, and I think the best way for us to start fixing ourselves is for me to say what I have to say like this.”

Niall’s silent a moment, and Harry knows, from years of being around Niall, that he has his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth with a furrowed brow and crinkled nose as he thinks and thinks and thinks. “And what is it?” Niall asks, and there’s a little thump, and Harry drops his forehead against the door, too, to be as close to Niall as he possibly can. “What do you ― what are you doing, you crazy walnut?”

Harry giggles, shakes his head and lets out a sigh that kind of rattles inside the emptiness of his chest. “I want to give you your gift.”

“Let me open the door.”

“No.”

“But ―”

“ _No_ ,” Harry says again, firm and loud and kind of dominant, and he furrows his brows because ― because that’s not what he’s trying to do at all. He doesn’t want to force Niall into forgiving him, into giving him another chance with rude loudness. “No, baby. Leave it closed, okay?”

Niall makes a noise, and it’s an agitated sound that Harry hears faintly through the door. “Fine,” he replies, gives in, and Harry wants to dance, wants to shake and shimmy in the corridor, but he refrains from doing so because there’s cameras placed about strategically and he isn’t ready to be the next one-hit wonder of the Internet. “I’ll keep it shut.”

“Thank you.” Harry shuts his eyes, clenches the holding case and sack in his hand so he doesn’t drop it should he lose his nerve, should he lose his strength. “Just, really quick ― I’m sorry you didn’t get to cook for us this Christmas, Ni. I’m sorry we had to eat Lauren’s nasty ham and Louis’s awful turkey and whatever the hell it was Liam threw together when I know, if everything was how it used to be, you and I would be slaving in the kitchen and Louis and Liam would be playing football in the backyard and Zayn would be trying to help but getting in the way, anyway. I’m sorry.”

“I… Forgot about that.”

Harry smiles. “I did, too,” he replies, agrees. “And I’m sorry you didn’t get to wear your aprons, either. They’re still all folded in a cubby at the house. I want you to know, though, that I hate that stupid apron you wore all the time ― the one with the cats and ice creams and lollipops on it. I actually hate aprons in general, I think – and it’s very rude to hate something that has never done anything to me, but I hate aprons because they’re just a crappy thing that’s supposed to save you from having to wash your clothes but you still have to wash that apron and it doesn’t make any sense, really, so aprons are stupid and I think they should be banned.”

“Harry.” Niall lets out of chuckle, a little puff of laughter. “Harry, you’re rambling.”

“I know.” Harry sighs. “And I think the only reason I’ve not tried to get rid of all the stupid aprons is you, Ni.” He his smile widens as loads of memories flash through his mind like a blurry, fuzzy movie. “You look really, really good in an apron, baby. Just… really good, Ni. _Really_.”

He’s silent for a moment, quiet and thoughtful as he tries to collect his thoughts and piece them together. He’s doing well ― he’s doing a hell of a lot better than he thought he would, that’s for sure.

“I love you, Ni,” he murmurs, shutting his eyes till colors splash across his vision. “I love you, but I’m not in love with you yet. I know I don’t say it a lot, but when I do, I mean it. And I’m not saying it to make you feel better, either. I think I’m saying it… to remind you.”

Niall is quiet and soft and gentle. “Of what?”

“I’m a shit person, and I know that.” Harry’s voice is cracked, wrecked, but the hole in his heart is slowly filling, slowly becoming whole. “But you’re the complete opposite of me. You’re perfect ― to me, at least. And I don’t know why you want me.”

“I ―”

“I ― I can’t do anything right, and the things I do happen to get right are the things that shouldn’t be right… right?” He laughs softly, and he hopes Niall’s smiling, too. “But I did one thing right. I loved you with all I had ― and I still love you with all I have even though it’s not at the level you need. Loving you is the only thing I’m good at, and… and I’m _trying_ , Niall. I really am. But people like me aren’t the ones that make it out beautifully in life. People like me get shit on and fucked and screwed over and over till there’s nothing left of us but a pile of ashes.”

He stops, takes a breath and opens his eyes wide.

“And then there’s people like you,” he continues, gulping around the apparent lump that’s formed in his throat. “You’ve seen it all ― _all of it_ ― and you’re still fresh and pure and hopeful and loving. And loyal ― you’re so fuckin’ loyal it blows my mind, baby. It’s people like you that save people like me ― you’re the type of person to raise people like me up from our own ashes. And I don’t just need you, Ni. I want you. I want you for me, and I want to be yours forever. And… I’m not in love with you yet, Niall, but if you’ll be patient with me, I know I’ll fall.”

Fast. Harry will fall at the speed of sound, at the color of happiness.

“I’m gonna do better now, too. I’m gonna try. And that’s all I promise you. I can’t say I’m gonna get better ‘cause I’m not sure how true that is. But I am gonna try. I won’t stop trying, either. Ever.”

They’re quiet. They’re quiet, and the silence is like a field of flowers, like watching a pocket of water break over sharp rocks, eroding them to dull points. Everything’s wound tight, but Harry feels calm, and it’s a strange sensation because he’s not been able to experience it in a long, long while.

“Harry?”

Harry feels his heart sparkle with color. “Yeah?”

“What about Lauren?”

Harry sighs. “She’s gone. And even when she returns, you’ll be the only person on my mind, Niall.”

“I’ll try,” he replies, and he’s gentle and soft and tender and sweet, and Harry’s falling, falling, falling, and he only hopes Niall’s going to be there to catch him. “I’ll try if you try.”

Oh. Oh, Harry’s heart is screaming ― Harry’s heart is screaming, and Niall’s hearing it. He’s hearing it, isn’t he?

“I got you a Polaroid, Ni,” Harry announces; he’s thick and dense and heavy, but he feels relieved, feels alleviated in the sweetest way, and he likes how the words are dripping off of his tongue like spiced molasses. “I got it because you like to take photos just as much as you enjoy drawing and painting, and I know you have an affinity for all things vintage. And ― I’m going to leave it right outside your door, and I’ll text you when I’m in the elevator so you can get it.”

Niall grunts. “Harry ―”

“Let me have this, okay?” Harry cuts him off, and Niall doesn’t make a noise. “Hold on to my key, Niall, and I’ll hold on to yours, too. I’ll see you soon.”

There’s a thump on the door, and Harry wonders if Niall’s sinking to his bum, if Niall’s putting his head in his hands and jerking at his hair. “Bye, Harry.”

Harry blinks. “Bye, baby.”

He stoops low then, takes Niall’s amateurishly-wrapped camera from the sack and places it on the ground; a door opens, and he looks up with a panicked jolt, expecting Niall to have disobeyed Harry’s wishes, but he’s surprised to see that Niall kept his word. He lets out a breath.

“Harry?”

Harry turns, sees that Grace’s standing behind him with a slanted head and furrowed brows and layered clothing; he grabs her candle out of the sack and stands in a hurry, and the colors that flash across his vision match the hues in his heart.

“Hi,” he says, waves awkwardly ― and then it’s all coming out, kind of, like a bout of word vomit. “I got you a candle for Christmas, and ― and it’s a candle but my mum’s neighbor makes them, and the scent is meadow frost and it smells like wildflowers, kinda, and you remind me of a wildflower ‘cause you’re really heroic, in my eyes, and you deserve something for all the shit you’ve had to deal with these last weeks, and I’m sorry for it all. Thank you, though. For being there for Niall when I was too idiotic to realize everything.”

Her eyes soften and she reaches out to take the proffered gift. “You didn’t have to get me anything, Harry. I didn’t get you a gift.”

He nods and smiles; his face is red and he’s itching and his heart is racing because Grace is a masterpiece painted out of gold and he doesn’t want to upset her because, in doing so, it’ll only hurt Niall. “I know. But I did.”

She shakes her head, rolls her eyes and shuts her door. “You’re a mess,” she replies, but she’s smiling and Harry put the grin there and that’s all that matters, really. “I’m heading to the pub to cook dinner for all the people who don’t have anywhere to go to eat today. Wanna tag along and help out?”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles, and his cheeks hurt and his fingers are numb and his heart is a thumping mess in his heart. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

 

 


	29. twenty-nine

“I feel like you shouldn’t be allowed to wear that color,” Niall announces, puts his two cents in as he looks over the form-fitting suit Grace has decided to wear tonight. “I mean, you look ravishing ― you look so beautiful and fuckin’ hot ― and yellow is definitely my favorite color on you, but I don’t know how other people are going to handle this… this fashion trend you’re starting.”

Grace makes a noise, puts her hands on her hips and gives Niall a look; the suit she’s wearing is composed of a flare-sleeved, light yellow blouse with a plunging neckline that shows a bit of her cleavage ― the last few snaps at the bottom are undone, too, and her tummy is peeking out, kind of, and she looks sort of like a rocker from the 80s in a pastel-colored way ― and the matching slacks are tight, tight, tight around her thick thighs and knobby knees and defined calves. The black stilettos she’s wearing ― with painted toenails that are yellow, as well ― pull the outfit together a little bit too perfectly, and if Niall says he isn’t jealous of her elegance he’s surely lying.

She pulls off clothes in a sense similar that Harry can make anything look good, too.

“And just what are you talking about, Niall James?”

He smiles, sheepish and cheeky, and walks forward, reaching out and patting down the frizzy mess that’s her corkscrew up-do. “Ah, well. All I mean is that you’re gonna have hell keeping people from stealing you to dance with them all night.”

“Oh, hush, you wild boy ― I’m going with you, am I not?” she asks, swatting playfully at his shoulder, and Niall nods as his smile grows and grows and grows. “Besides, you’re looking awful sexy tonight, too. Who knew you were going to be the person to singlehandedly bring sheer shirts back into style?”

Niall shrugs, but he can’t hide the red blush that’s tainting his cheeks, that’s crawling up his neck and dancing across his skin in a waltz that reminds him of vines crawling up the trunk of an aged tree. “This isn’t even my shirt, Gracie,” he replies, picking at the sheer material ― it’s black, by the way, with pink and red and white flowers on the front, where the fabric is translucent and showing off his pale, pale skin, while the back is thick and nontransparent, keeping a bit of his consciousness in check. The first few buttons are unsnapped, too, and it’s as if he and Grace are both channeling their inner Harry Styles.

“And whose is it, Ni?” she asks, bats her lashes and raises her brow; her makeup is done to perfection, Niall thinks, and he really, really likes the smoky eyeshadow she’s done.

“Harry’s,” Niall replies, whispers, and he is burning hot now, flushing red and pink till it’s nearly a hue that’s taking over his vision, smearing around the edges. “It must’ve gotten packed in with my things, and I only just found it the other day. I’ll give it back to him after I wash it.”

Niall doesn’t think Harry would mind if he wore the shirt, anyway. Hell, he probably wouldn’t care if Niall kept the material.

“I like it.” Grace nods, purses her lips and reaches out, flicking a bit of white fuzz off of the hem of the shirt. “I think it looks better on you than it would him, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve never seen him wear it before.”

And ― and when Harry wears this shirt, when Harry wears any shirt that bends the rules and breaks the laws that’s been set by society in a stone-like rock made up of lies and insecurities and flaws, it makes Niall hot, makes him hard and heavy and thick and so, so full.

Of what, he isn’t rightly sure. It’s a mix of things ― passion, heat, arousal, want, and something that’s utterly, incomprehensibly Harry, Harry, _Harry_. But that’s something to be kept between him and the sheets, isn’t it?

“True,” Grace allows, shrugging. “But I like you better, and what I say goes, all right? No questions asked.”

Niall rolls his eyes, but nods anyway. “Whatever you say,” he replies; there’s really no point in arguing with her, and it’s too good of a day to be fighting.

“He went with me to the pub on Christmas and helped me out loads, if you didn’t already know.”

“Who?”

“Harry,” Grace replies, and her voice is kind of strained, kind of pulled tight in a way that Niall doesn’t understand, but her eyes are glimmering, are sparkling like the Christmas lights he’s yet to take down, and she isn’t mad. She isn’t mad, and that’s a good thing. “I’ve made it a point to cook Christmas dinner for those who have nowhere to go on the holiday for the last few years, and Harry went along to help out. He knows his way around a kitchen and he helped a lot more than I expected, but he’s a shit cook, Niall. I have no idea how you and the other three survived living with him for so long.”

Niall nods and laughs, cackles; he brings his hand up to his mouth and tries to smother his chuckles, but it’s still heard. “He is shit, isn’t he?” he agrees ― Harry is good at a lot of things, but cooking definitely isn’t one of them, that’s for sure, though he’s tried to create a bit of skill more than once. “He’s awful at it.”

“He’s trying, though,” Grace says, and she’s quiet, thoughtful and serious, and Niall has a feeling they aren’t talking about cooking. “I heard what he said to you on Christmas, and I don’t support the decision he’s made ― if he wants you, I believe he should let Lauren know because she’ll understand; she loves him too much to not understand, and I don’t like how he’s handling this situation at all ― but I’m proud of him for not running away, for not giving up when it’s probably the easiest thing he could’ve done. I’m proud of him for trying to fix himself and the things he’s messed up. I think that says a lot about the guy he is deep down.”

Niall swallows around the lump that her words have created in his throat, and he prays he doesn’t resort to a coughing fit. “He’s… Harry is a great guy, Gracie,” he says, frowns ― Harry is one of the best people Niall’s ever met, and though Harry has a hot temper at times paired with the inability to effectively make a decision under pressure, he is a diamond in the dust that only needs to be polished a bit before it shines and shines and shines. “He’s had his moments, and he’s done a lot of stupid things and been shitty at times, but he’s still my best friend. He’s still the person I want to spend what’s left of my life with, and I don’t think it’ll ever change.”

Grace makes a face, wraps her arms around herself and grabs at her elbows. “You love him a lot, don’t you?” she asks, soft and gentle and tender, and Niall hates how quick they went from goofing off with one another to digging into his heart in a moment, in a second; he doesn’t like being bare, doesn’t like being naked. “Don’t you?”

“I think that’s the problem,” Niall says, pursing his lips and going over all the words, all that thoughts that are flashing and flying in his mind. “I think I love him a little bit too much.”

“I won’t support a relationship between the two of you,” she retorts, moves to lean her shoulder on the wall of Niall’s flat. “If he doesn’t break things off with Lauren before he pursues a relationship with you, I will not support it. That’s cheating ― that’s cheating, and it’s wrong.”

“I understand.” Niall shuts his eyes, breathes a sigh of defeat. It’s New Year’s Eve ― it’s New Year’s Eve, and he ought to be smiling, ought to be happy and lively and full of joy, but he isn’t. He isn’t because he wants Harry, isn’t because Harry wants him, and the only thing stopping them from being alive with one another is Lauren ― Lauren, who is Niall’s blood, who is the sister he always wanted and the person he goes to when he needs to be reminded of what it feels like to be at home; Lauren, who is Harry’s girlfriend, Harry’s fiancée, who is the woman he fell so hard for without the intention of ever getting up.

If breaking off the engagement means hurting Lauren in any way, Harry won’t do it, and Niall knows that ― Niall _understands_ that. He does. The only way the wedding will be called off is if it’s her decision; Niall doesn’t like what Harry’s doing, but he understands why. Lauren is Niall and Harry’s happiness, in a way: if she’s happy, if she’s smiling, they’ll both be content in the way things have settled even if they aren’t with one another.

Harry will give Lauren everything ― Harry will give Lauren whatever it is that she wants, and though he isn’t in love with her, as he’s said, he’ll love her till the end of time. Lauren will be happy, no matter what, and should she and Harry get married, Niall knows it’ll be a union full of love.

And ― and that kind of makes Niall happy, too. Knowing that Lauren will be taken care of ― yeah; yeah, that makes Niall a bit happier than he was before.

“I’ll support _you_ , though. With whatever you want to do, even if you’re in the wrong, I’ll support you.”

Niall blinks, ripped from his musings, and meets Grace’s expectant, open eyes. “Yeah?” he asks, tries to hide the level of amazement he’s soaring on at the moment. Niall doesn’t know what he’s going to do ― he may ignore Harry tonight, may dance with Harry tonight; he may throw Harry’s hands off if he goes to touch Niall, may grab Harry’s fingers and jerk them close together. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but it’s good to be aware of the fact that he has Grace on his side. “Good. I’m glad.”

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do because he’s not been faced with the need to make that decision just yet.

He has a feeling he’s going to have to figure his heart out tonight, though. Harry isn’t pushy and Niall likes to take his time, and a lot of the problems they’ve been skirting around lately need to be sorted out tonight before they’re ignored yet again.

“What is that you’re going to do?” she asks, slants her head to give Niall an inquisitive look. “If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t ― he doesn’t mind at all. Talking about his problems, about the thoughts that are floating in his head and destroying his self-confidence, his security in who he always thought of himself as is a soft, steady touch to his heart, to his soul, to the rush of worry he can taste in the back of his throat. He’s always there for people, and it’s nice to know that he now has someone who will stand by him when he needs to be reassured.

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet,” he replies, wets his lips; they’re chapped, and he borrowed some cherry-flavored chap stick from her, and it’s a taste that hangs heavily on his tongue, filmy and juicy. “I don’t want to hurt Lauren, but I don’t want to hurt anymore, either, and Harry’s hurting enough for all three of us.”

“You want Harry.”

Niall nods.

“And he wants you.”

Again, Niall nods. “I ― I think so. He’s told me so, at least. Not in the same words, but ― but yeah.”

Niall doesn’t understand why, though. He’s an all right person, he thinks ― he helps people cross the street when it’s rainy and wet, stands up on the bus when a father needs to sit with his children, aids an elderly woman in finding her grown daughter after getting lost in the rush of shoppers, washes the sand out of a child’s eye after she fell at the park and cut their knees and ripped their jeans. He’s an all right person, and he has a few decent qualities, but he’s also problematic, and he isn’t anything special. He’s nothing special, and it’s odd that Harry would want him over Lauren ― Lauren, who is successful and smart and kind and gentle and beautiful in a subtle, elegant way.

Niall’s nothing special, but he’s special to Harry, it seems.

“Are you going to hurt Lauren?”

Niall shuts his eyes, pulls in a deep breath that he holds for a moment before replying, and it’s a nasty bout of air in his lungs that makes him burn. “I hope I don’t. I hope _we_ don’t.”

We meaning him and Harry, that is.

But ― but Niall’s already hurt her, hasn’t he? They’ve all hurt her, haven’t they? He’s fallen in love with her fiancé, touched and kissed and fondled and caressed her fiancé right beneath her nose, eliciting one of the greatest pleasures a human can find; if she finds out, when she finds out, she’ll hurt. She will hurt and hurt and hurt ― because of Niall’s lack of self-control, because of Harry’s disloyalty and betrayal, because of Grace’s knowledge of the situation. She’ll hurt because everybody’s lying and lying and lying, and there’s no horizon of truth in the distance that Niall can see.

It’s darkness. Everything is black, black, black.

But Harry’s yellow. Harry’s the color of the sun, and he isn’t Niall’s light because he’s a bit too dim to illuminate everything, but he’s the faint hope that tells Niall it’ll all be bright soon enough.

“Don’t hurt yourself, either.”

 Niall raises his eyes, meets Grace’s. “I’ve hurt for so long that I don’t even feel it anymore,” he responds, and it’s the truth ― he’s suffered for years and years and years, and he doesn’t feel the pain anymore. There’s no point in it, anyway; he can’t do anything about it, and it’s become part of who he is now. It’s just something _there_.

“Enough of this heavy talk,” Grace says, pushes off the wall and brushes the seriousness off with a flick of her wrist. “It’s New Year’s Eve, and I want to get down to the pub to make sure it hasn’t gone up in flames yet. When’s Harry coming to get us?”

A heavy weight is lifted off of Niall’s chest, and he sighs, breathes in over and over and over; his worry is gone and his heart is calm and his blood is at ease as it rushes through his veins, as it swims and swirls, and he’s smiling ― he’s smiling, and he’s so, so glad Grace is in his life. Honestly.

She’s a pure piece of white snow that melts on the tip of Niall’s finger as soon as it lands ― she’s an angel he can’t wear around his neck because she’s stood by his side holding his hand. Yeah. Yeah, Grace is one of Niall’s most favorite people already.

“I think he said something about ―” Niall starts, but he’s cut off by a knock on the door: one two three, pause, one two three. It’s Harry, and the fact that Niall knows it makes him smile till his cheeks are hurting. “I guess he’s here now.”

Grace gives him a look, a calculative stare, and Niall doesn’t know what’s going to happen tonight, doesn’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow or the following days afterward, either, but it’s all okay. It’s all okay because he isn’t alone ― because Gemma and Harry said so.

-

“At least it hasn’t burned to the ground,” Niall muses, whispers as Grace shoves through the raging, dancing, celebrating crowd on the bottom floor of the pub; people are packed together in what seems to be layers, and the clothes are skin-tight and the music is loud and the atmosphere almost feels too hot to breathe, really. “I mean, that’s a plus, yeah?”

Grace grunts, puts her hands on the shoulders of a kissing couple of girls and pushes them out of the way. “Yeah, that’s a plus,” she replies through gyrated teeth as she leads the way toward the stairs that will take them upstairs.

They just arrived at the pub, and the parking lot is full and the road is packed and the other lots are taken, too, and Harry had to park nearly a kilometer away from the entrance. It’s hot and stuffy and thick and oppressive inside, too, and it smells of beer and sweat and sex and greasy food, and the people are damp with saltiness as they brush against Niall, and though he’s uncomfortable with the viscidity of it all, he isn’t exactly mad.

It’s New Year’s Eve, the biggest party of the year ― of course he isn’t mad.

Besides, the thickness of the crowd has caused the need to be close, close, _close_ with Harry. He can’t really be mad about that.

“It’s a bit crazy in here,” Harry says, and he’s behind Niall, bringing up the rear; he’s dressed in a cream-colored silk shirt with ruffled shoulders and rolled-up sleeves, and his hair is a wavy mess of snarled tendrils and his eyes are gray-green and his lips are pink, and Niall thinks he looks good enough to eat, really, and tonight’s only just started by Niall is ready to go, go, go. “What’s the capacity limit, Grace?”

“I think ― either a thousand or fifteen hundred,” she replies, pushes past a group of tall, thick men that are blocking the stairway. “I’m not really sure, but it’s one of those two.”

“And the upstairs?” Niall asks, taking a step and beginning the climb up the stairs behind Grace, sandwiched between her and Harry; the heat that’s coming off of Harry is so hot it’s nearly cold, and the shudders that are quaking Niall’s body isn’t just from the chill of the snow that’s melted in his hair and dampened what bit of skin he’s showing. “How many are up there?”

“It’s been roped off for the night,” she answers, looking at Niall over her shoulder and flashing him a wicked smile. “It’s a private party that only certain people are allowed in.”

“Are we?” Harry asks; his hand is close to Niall’s on the rail, and it’s hard to not relish Harry’s close proximity, but he doesn’t think it’s socially appropriate to go wild with arousal just yet. He’s shooting for it to be legal in 2017.

“Don’t be daft, Styles.” Grace rolls her eyes, reaches the top of the stairwell and nods at the two guards ― one is male and the other is female, and they’re dressed in black, and their arms are bare, and it looks as if they have muscles on top of muscles. _Oh my_. “You’re an idiot, but you helped me a lot more than I thought on Christmas, and though you weren’t originally on the list, you’ve definitely deserved your place.” She looks at Harry, gives him a smile that makes Niall want to cheer and dance because two of his closest friends are finally ― _finally_ ― getting along, and though there’s still a little bit of tension in the air, it doesn’t feel as if Niall’s suffocating. “I love my candle, too, by the way.”

“Yeah?” The door opens, revealing a decorated, sparkly room that has a few dozen people spaced sporadically about; they walk through, and as a slam is heard, Niall begins to look around for his friends, spotting them gathered around the bar. Louis’s hand is on Kamryn’s tummy and Zayn is aiding an apparent bartender in mixing a drink and Liam is adjusting himself for some reason or another. _Perfect_. “I’m glad you do. It doesn’t stink?”

Grace shakes her head, pushes herself between Niall and Harry, looping her arms through both of theirs as she strides forward, taking them along with her. “Not at all. I may send an order to the man for more.”

Niall looks over Grace’s head, meets Harry’s eyes, and the smile they share is soft and easy, and it’s kind of scary, really, at how tuned into one another they are, but it’s New Year’s Eve, and Niall isn’t going to let it get him down.

He isn’t going to let Harry take away his joy, isn’t going to let Lauren’s absence dictate whether or not he rings in the new year with a smile or a frown ― it’s New Year’s Eve, and he’s surrounded by his friends and he has a job interview in two days and he isn’t struggling financially anymore, and he isn’t going to be dragged down by the stress, by the rush of anxiety he left at home.

He’s going to enjoy the night, and Harry’s smile lets Niall know that it’s going to be one hell of a time.

-

It’s nearly midnight. It’s nearly midnight, and the songs are good and the drinks are cold and the people are messy and the food is tasty, and Niall has to piss. Niall has to find a restroom before he pisses on himself, before the clock strikes twelve.

“Grace!” he yells, calls over the exuberance of the party; Grace is stood on the bar with Louis, and they’re dancing, shaking their asses to a popular song that’s blaring through the speakers, and Kamryn is laughing and Harry is videoing and Liam is making sure neither fall and Zayn is flirting with the blonde bartender. “Grace! I’ve got to piss!”

She never slows the sway of her hips as she turns to look down at Niall. “Employee bathroom is in the back. It’s probably cleaner than the public ones. Have Harry show you.”

Niall gulps, turns to look at Harry, and he isn’t at all surprised to see that Harry is gazing at him, too; the smolder between them is simmering, but it feels _so good_. “You don’t mind?” Niall asks, kind of loud; the upstairs occupants have quickly multiplied, and though it isn’t as wild as downstairs, it’s a bit dense, and he has to yell to be heard.

Harry shakes his head, puts his phone away and flips his hair out of his face. “Not at all,” he replies, and he’s smiling as he takes Niall’s hand, as he drags Niall through the gyrating bodies toward the back of the room.

There’s a corridor hidden by a curtain, and Harry pushes it to the side, revealing a dimly-lit hallway with doors on either side; they walk midway before Harry stops, grabs a doorknob on the left side and pushes it wide, pulling Niall inside, kicking the door shut.

The restroom is large and shaped like a thin square; on the left is a granite counter with a sink and mirror, and on the right is a toilet. The walls are wood-paneled and it smells like roses inside.

Niall looks over his shoulder at Harry. “You gonna stay in?”

Harry grins and nods. “I won’t look,” he responds, bringing his hands up to cover his eyes, and ― and _holy shit_ , he looks cute, looks like an excited little kid with his giddy smile. “I’ll be a good boy for you.”

He is absolutely _precious_.

Niall sighs. “All right.” He strides forward, undoes his jeans; he looks toward Harry, makes sure Harry is still hiding his eyes before pulling himself out and doing his business.

And it’s odd, you know, having somebody stand in while he’s using the toilet, while he’s relieving himself, but, strangely enough, he doesn’t really mind. He and Harry have shared loads of things ― kisses, touches, beds, clothes, promises. Pissing in front of each other is just another step in their relationship, it seems, and it’s a positive one, at least.

They’re not going backward, are they? No. No, they’re going forward, and that’s good. That’s great. That’s fucking fantastic.

Once Niall’s done, he puts himself back inside and zips his jeans. “Harry ―”

“Ten, nine, eight…”

Harry brings his hands down from his eyes and gives Niall a lopsided, cheeky grin. “We’re gonna miss it,” he says, but he doesn’t seem to be very disappointed, really.

“Seven, six, five…”

Niall shrugs, rolls his eyes and walks forward; he reaches around Harry, flicks the lock on the door, and wets his lips. “We can ring in the new year ourselves, can’t we?” he asks, blinks, and he isn’t entirely sure what he’s getting at himself, but he likes the way Harry’s eyes are wide, likes the way Harry’s lips are pink, likes the way Harry’s cheeks are red. “Can’t we?”

“Four, three, two…”

“Yeah.” Harry nods; his hands rise up, and they’re cold and clammy as they cup Niall’s cheeks, as they hold him still. “Happy New Year, baby.”

He leans forward then, and Niall meets him halfway, and they’re kissing ― they’re kissing, and Niall tastes like cold Corona and Harry tastes like bitter cranberry juice and breathless vodka, and the booming, thunderous cries from outside are drowning out the rapid beating of Niall’s heart, and he feels guilty, feels disgusting and used and washed up, but Harry’s fingers are soft and his lips are tentative and he knows.

_He knows._

Harry wants him. Harry wants him, and Lauren’s gone, and it’s shitty of them, terrible of them to be doing this while she’s in Ireland visiting her and Niall’s family, but Niall kind of doesn’t care ― even if she was here, he and Harry would still probably be doing this, kissing and touching and moaning and fondling one another in the restroom (because it seems to be the hotspot for their interactions) till Niall’s breathless and Harry’s whining and they’re both edging to let go of the rush that’s wetting, tightening their underwear.  

It’s shitty of them, and they’ve been drinking ― though they aren’t drunk, mind you; Harry has to drive back and Niall promised he’d stay relatively sober in case of an emergency ― but it’s kind of hard to keep two people away from one another when all they want is each other.

Niall pulls back, and the string of saliva that bridges their lips falls onto his chest, and it’s a lukewarm wetness that makes him moan, that makes his hips jerk forward till he can feel the hardness that’s tenting in Harry’ jeans, too.

“You look so pretty wearing my shirt,” Harry says, and he’s breathless, hard and shaking; it’s the first time he’s commented on it, and Niall swells till he’s afraid he’s going to blast apart. “So, so pretty, baby.”

“Wanna leave early and go back to mine?”

Harry looks at Niall ― Harry looks at Niall, and looks and looks and looks, as if he’s trying to search for the apprehension that’s surely eating away at Niall’s boldness. But there’s none there; Niall meant what he said, and he isn’t afraid of what’s going to happen after because he wants it ― he wants it, and Harry’s worth it. Harry’s worth everything.

“Yes.” Harry nods, and his hands are hot as they move to Niall’s hair, as they pull him close so their lips can graze again and again and again. “Yes ― _please yes_.”

 


	30. thirty

The drive back to Niall’s flat is hot, is full of a certain heat that Harry’s never felt before ― hot because of the heater, hot because of Niall’s fidgeting, hot because of the tension that’s hanging between them like a heavy cloud of wind, hot because of the touches that are lingering on Harry’s thighs and arms and lips and fingertips, hot because he can feel it in his heart, in his soul, in his groin.

Hmm. He’s hard. He’s hard, and though he isn’t leaking, isn’t desperate for a release to ease the pressure that’s growing in his pants, that’s tightening his underwear and stretching his jeans ― he quite likes the wait, you know, the edging and holding off from pleasure till he’s sobbing, till he’s whimpering with the need to let it all go before he completely explodes ― he knows Niall is mounting, knows Niall is ready to go, knows Niall is on the verge of stripping to take care of the erection he had to hide as he was telling everybody goodbye at the pub.

The tent in Niall’s jeans, the hardness of Niall’s nipples through the translucent shirt he’s borrowed from Harry, the whiteness of his knuckles as he grips at his pant legs and twines his fingers through his hair, tugging in much the same way that Harry wants him to toss off, really, is a slick, provocative, divine giveaway that Harry is praising whoever wants to listen for.

Yeah. Yeah, Niall’s ready to go ― Niall’s ready to go, ready to cream in his pants, and Harry’s mouth is wet, wet, wet, and he only hopes he can spread that excited, thick dampness all over Niall’s naked, bare body.

But Harry’s driving. Harry’s driving, and Niall’s humming along to the radio as Ryn Weaver sings about a man named Pierre and dancing in a desert in the pouring rain, and Harry wants to wait. Harry’s a relatively vanilla-like lover ― though he wouldn’t mind changing a few things up, maybe adding a bit of tender pain, a bit of toys and rings and vibrators, a bit of a rimming, a bit of gentle bondage, bit of simmering foreplay that’s full of touches, of soft kisses and hard scratches and reddening bites and whimpered cries because that’s just _so fucking hot_ ― but he wants Niall to wait, and wait and wait and wait till it’s the perfect time to fall apart.

Till he’s crying for it, till he’s red in the face and flushed pink all over, till his eyes are wide and his tongue is wet and his mouth is parted, till his nipples are erect and his cock his hard, hard, _hard_ and his hole is sopping from the ministrations he’s taken like the good boy Harry knows him to be, till he’s sobbing and begging and whimpering and whining and pleading for Harry, Harry, Harry ― for Harry to let him come, for Harry to untie his hands, for Harry to eat it all up, up, up.

Oh. Oh, he’s leaking now. Fucking hell ― his jeans are icky and sticky and cold now, and the bit of precum that’s dampening his boxers is an uncomfortable abrasion against the head of his dick. Yuck. Precum isn’t a very comfortable thing when he’s fully clothed, you know, and though he wants to reach down, undo the button of his jeans and grab Niall’s hand, moving it over so he can work Harry to a sloppy, viscid orgasm, he doesn’t. He doesn’t because edging is worth it, in the end, and Harry’s a patient man when he wants to be, when he needs to be.

He can wait.

Harry can wait, but Niall may not be able to, and ― and really, Harry just wants to know what Niall tastes like.

Is that too much to ask ― is it too much to ask to taste the sweetest, prettiest little thing?  

“Harry?”

Startled, Harry looks over at Niall and it’s kind of second nature to him to smile whenever he sees Niall’s face, really. “Yeah?”

Niall’s face is slightly pink, the color of his kissed-colored lips, and his grin is what the stars aspire to be, bright and shiny and full of a fire that’s going to drag Harry down in flames of the prettiest kind. “We’re here,” he says, tears his eyes from Harry’s to look out through the glass of the vehicle.

Oh.

Harry sighs, puts the car in park and turns it off; the fact that he drove the entire way back to the flat silently, lost in his thoughts, and had no mind of arriving at the complex’s parking lot kind of blows him away, kind of makes his nose twitch with a bit of itchy disbelief. He was too busy thinking about blowing Niall, thinking about sucking him deep and swallowing around his cherry-red tip to even realize how close to the flat they were.

Wow. He’s ― he’s in really, really deep, isn’t he?

“Let’s go.”

Niall’s out of the car then, and there’s a rush of cold air that swoops in and makes Harry curse, that makes Harry remove the keys and shove open the door and practically crawl out with weak knees and wobbly legs and numb feet; the owner of the complex must’ve had a mixture of salt and sand sprinkled on the blacktop of the lot because Niall is running, is jogging ahead of Harry, and he isn’t slipping, isn’t sliding, and he’s laughing, and it’s a noise that rings out in the frigid, burning air and echoes like Harry’s favorite song.

Niall is Harry’s favorite _everything_.  

“Niall ― Niall, be careful!” Harry yells, kicks the door shut and locks the car to avoid a bit of trouble. “Don’t fall!”

“Don’t worry, daddy,” Niall replies, throws over his shoulder as he puts a skip in his gait, hopping over a bit of raised ground as to not trip. He winks ― he winks, and Harry feels his sanity fizzle, feels what little bit of common sense he had left implode and rain down in a flurry of heat, in a volley of need and hot kisses and sticky fingers and promises that drip off of tongues like slippery cum (Harry reckons he’ll swallow, though, because it doesn’t make near as big a mess if one drinks it down). “I’ll be just fine, but if I fall, I know you’ll be there to make it all better.”

Shit, fuck, damn, hell, bloody teeth and clenched fists ― Niall is going to be the death of Harry, isn’t he? It’s confirmed. If Harry doesn’t break his neck on the fucking halfway-thawed ice settled on the parking lot, it’s Niall’s exuberance, Niall’s bubbly bit of vivaciousness that’s going to put him six feet under in a semi-early grave that he doesn’t want to be buried in just yet.

Everybody dies eventually, one way or another, and if he goes because of Niall’s accidental sensuality, because of Niall’s relentless ability to bring Harry to his knees, so be it. What a way to go.

“Harry! Come on!”

Niall is too bloody excited at the moment; he needs to calm down, needs to take a deep breath and understand that Harry is not going to run on black ice, on crushed and wet snow, because he’s already fallen and bruised his tailbone and twisted his ankle, and he can’t risk busting his ass again; he’s kind of young, and he doesn’t want to cash in his life insurance policy just yet.

He’ll take it slow ― he’ll take it slow because that’s how he wants to move with Niall: slow, slow, slow, with clammy touches and colorful kisses and cohesive words.

He reaches Niall soon enough; Niall grapples for Harry’s hand, giggles as their chilly fingers interlace, and they walk inside, and it’s a rush of warm air, of fake heat that makes Harry shiver and shudder from the sudden change in temperature. A man is sat behind the main desk, and he’s drinking a hot cup of what smells like coffee as he scrolls through his phone, tapping at random intervals and allowing a smirk to stretch across his lips; everything else is quiet and the lobby is dimly-lit and it all feels so, so gentle, really.

“Happy New Year, Richie!” Niall calls, and he’s loud ― _holy shit_ , he’s being _so_ _loud_ , and Harry wants to tell him to calm down, wants to tell Niall to take it easy and relax a bit, for the sake of his energy and the coherent mindset of the other tenants, but he can’t. He can’t because Niall’s laugh is lavender, because Niall’s smile is yellow, because Niall’s twinkling eyes are blue, _so blue_ ― he can’t because Niall is a flashing image of color, color, color, and every hue that he’s sparkling with matches the tones that Harry has inside of his heart, inside of his soul, inside of his mind.

He does wave in greeting, though, forcing a little smile that’s sheepish, that’s shy. At Richie, that is.

And ― and the smirk Richie throws at Niall, throws at Harry, kind of makes Harry burn.

They’re caught. Ha. _They’re caught_.

This is not a laughing matter. This is not ― what the hell is Harry doing?

“Enjoy yourself, Ni,” the man ― Richie ― calls in return, bringing his hand up and saluting Harry and Niall as they rush toward the elevator. “Be sure to keep it down, too. Mrs. Quinn is sleeping, and she’s already warned me to make sure that she isn’t disturbed. And I don’t fancy dealing with her this late at night, man.”

Niall nods, grins really, really big; the elevator doors open and Niall bounces inside, pulling Harry along behind him. The doors dance closed, and it smells like a mixture of vanilla and wildflowers inside, and Niall is pink-faced and smiling, and Harry is hot and hard and heavy, and it’s okay.

It’s okay.

Just like everybody’s been saying.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

For now, at least, and Harry’s going to take advantage of the odd bit of peace he’s been able to find between kisses and touches and smiles and laughter.

“Niall ―”

Niall shakes his head, moves forward; his hands crawl up, tickle across Harry’s wind-bitten cheeks, and his lips land on Harry’s, and they’re kissing again. They’re kissing, and Niall’s smiling, licking at the seam of Harry’s lips as he pushes Harry back, back, back till his spine connects with the elevator door, till he has no choice but to slap his palms out against the metal to stop himself from sliding down as he opens his mouth, as he allows Niall to move deep and flick wide and circle around, and around and around and around.

And it feels good, _so good_ , you know, having Niall lick and kiss into his mouth; his tongue is soft and slow and sensual and sexy, curling around Harry’s and sucking, rolling and prodding, and Harry’s knees are weak as he begins to sink, as he begins to lose all thought, all sense, all common rationality.

Niall giggles ― giggles; again, fucking giggles ― and pulls away, slurping at the thick, sweet saliva that’s bridging their mouths. He moves forward, puts his lips to Harry’s cheek and stays there, hugging Harry and keeping him close.

Harry’s warm now. Warm and full of spicy attraction, of bitter arousal, and he scratches at Niall’s back, twirls his fingers in the opaque fabric as he moves to the side, as he leans down and nuzzles his face in Niall’s sweaty neck.

This is home. Harry’s heart is full and his tummy is warm and his fingertips are electrifying, are full of every kind of nerve there is as he grapples for Niall’s skin; Niall’s laughter is ringing in the heat of the elevator, and it’s a noise that makes Harry sparkle, that makes Harry feel as if he’s made of diamonds. There’s whole universes and entire galaxies and complete worlds covered and buried inside of Niall’s laugh, of Niall’s happiness, and Harry’s appreciative of the fact that he’s the first and only person to be awarded the honor of exploring Niall’s wonderment.

This is home ― this must be what home feels like.

The doors ding and open; Harry falls backward, trips over his feet, and Niall reaches out, grabs at Harry’s shoulders to keep him from knocking into his bum again, and they’re laughing ― they’re laughing as they tumble, as they stumble down the corridor, giggling and chuckling and hiding their giddiness in one another’s shoulders, and Harry isn’t drunk, didn’t drink enough to become buzzed let alone intoxicated, and Niall didn’t, either, and it’s at that moment, with Niall’s shaking fingers and muffled guffaws that Harry realizes what’s going on.

They’re not drunk. They’re not drunk on liquor, no, but they’re kind of drunk on each other, aren’t they?

Niall takes his keys out, fiddles around for a moment before he’s able to successfully unlock the door; he turns the knob, pushes it wide and pulls Harry in behind him before kicking it closed ― and they were laughing, were smiling, but now they’re kissing.

Now they’re kissing, and Niall’s hands are rough, are vicious as they comb through Harry’s hair, as they tug at the snarled tendrils that’s been weaved in, and Harry’s fingers are desperate, are full of a palpable need as he reaches down, as he cups the backs of Niall’s thighs, as he prompts Niall to spread his legs, to slot their limbs between one another so the friction they are both craving can be felt a bit more effectively.

Harry falls back against the wall with Niall adhered to his body; Niall’s mouth is savage and hard on Harry’s, pushing at Harry’s lips so his tongue can lick inside, and Harry opens his mouth wide, wide, wide.

Their spit is mixing, is amalgamating, and it’s an odd feeling, a strange sensation that Harry relishes, that Harry savors with a fervor that he’s never experienced before. It’s leaking down his cheeks, drooling along his chin and following the veins in his neck as he strains to get closer; it’s slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, tickling across his chest, and he can’t help the moan that journeys up from his loins.

He moans, and Niall swallows the sound, drinks it up; Harry’s fingers are insistent on the back of Niall’s thighs and Niall’s hands fall from Harry’s hair, leaving behind a sore scalp to tend to Harry’s shirt. He hurries to undo the buttons without causing a mess, and Harry’s more than a little astounded when Niall doesn’t have a problem with the last few snaps.

Niall’s pulling back then, and it’s Harry’s turn to suck up the string of saliva, and it’s a taste in his mouth that makes his hips jerk forward, that begs him to grind his hardness against Niall’s stiff thigh.

“ _Oh_. Oh, baby.”

Niall giggles ― again, and he really needs to stop doing that before Harry loses his mind and decides tonight that’s the night he wants to experiment anally ― and his lips drag across Harry’s jaw, lick up at the saliva that’s trailed along his neck, and then he’s latching at one of Harry’s nipples, suckling at the little bud.

And Harry kind of goes wild as he hisses, as he groans, as he throws his head back and smiles; moans are falling from his lips, and his hands move up, jerk at Niall’s shirt till his fingers can wiggle beneath the waistband of Niall’s jeans, and ― and wow, Niall’s skin is soft, so soft and satin and velvet-like to the touch, and his mouth is a sinful instrument that’s making Harry whine and sob and writhe.

The tables have turned, haven’t they? Harry was afraid Niall couldn’t wait, but Niall’s switched it all up and made a few rules of his own, and Harry’s the one who is about to let it all go prematurely.

Niall bites at the nub; a shot of pain courses through Harry’s system, but Niall soothes away the ache with flicks of his tongue, with little kitten licks that make Harry’s eyes roll back into his head.

“Touch me,” Harry pleads, gasp, and he doesn’t mind begging if it’s Niall he’s hoping for, really. “ _Please_ ― please touch me.”

Niall pulls away from Harry’s nipple, and the little ‘pop’ that reverberates in the air is as scandalous as Harry’s hiss of pleasure as the air hits his wet nub. “Where?” Niall asks, gives Harry a mischievous smirk as his hand comes up, as his fingers grab hold of Harry’s length through his jeans, as he squeezes and squeezes and squeezes till Harry’s about to double over with raw, intense sensation. “Right here?”

“Motherfucker.” Harry rolls his shoulders, slaps his hands against the wall and curls his palms till his nails are digging into the paper. “Can… Can we move somewhere more comfortable?”

Niall nods, leans forward and puts his nose against Harry’s. “Shower.”

“Yes,” Harry hisses, wets his lips and whimpers as images flash through his mind; Niall’s wet body and hard arousal and goofy smile and silly touches are enough to make Harry thrum with anticipation. _Oh my_. “Yes, let’s take a shower.”

“ _You_ take a shower. Not me.”

Harry blinks, confused. “What?”

Niall nods and steps away; his hand releases Harry’s crotch and his arms cross, and he gives Harry a smirk, a lecherous grin that makes Harry growl. “You need to shower,” Niall replies. “You smell like vodka and cranberry juice, and I’m not going to do a thing with you till you’re clean.”

This can’t be happening. _This can’t be happening._

“But ―”

“Nope. No whining.” Niall shakes his head, hooks his thumb over his shoulder toward the corridor. “Have a shower, and then come to my room so we can talk a little bit, Harry.”

Harry sighs; he knows he isn’t going to be able to change Niall’s mind ― Niall’s a bit hardheaded at times, and it’s impossible to not notice, really, because he’ll fight tooth and nail, hell and high water, if it means he’s going to get his way. He nods, steps passed Niall and begins his trek toward the bathroom; he does kind of stink, and he doesn’t want to upset Niall now that they’ve both found a harmony without being between the sheets.

“I’ve got a pair of sweats and a shirt in the cabinet,” Niall announces. “You can wear that till we get your clothes washed.”

Harry nods, turns down the corridor and makes his way toward Niall’s bathroom; he opens the door, flicks on the light, and it’s clean and smells like cherry blossoms. There’s a shower directly in front and a large, two-person tub to the left; on the right, there’s a toilet and floor-to-ceiling cabinets that Harry opens and grabs a towel out of.

He walks toward the shower, leans in and adjusts the knobs before turning it on, letting it warm up; he strips rather quickly, hoping to avoid the gooseflesh that’s already crawling over his skin. Once he’s naked, he looks down, sees that he’s hard and leaking, and there’s a wet patch in the center of his boxers that makes him want to cry with frustration.

He needs some sort of release. Niall isn’t going to touch him, and Harry can’t handle another case of perpetual blue balls.

He makes a quick decision ― shower sex is awesome, and it’s generally much cleaner and sanitary to wank while being washed, too, but plain water is probably the worst lubricate for a bit of extracurricular activity, and Harry doesn’t want to go dry ― and moves forward, opening one of the cabinets and searching till he finds a bottle of lotion. He uncaps the stuff ― it’s coco butter kiss, and it smells like heat, like hotness ― and squeezes out a dollop onto his palm; he doesn’t bother to properly close the bottle before fisting himself, before gripping his hardness tight and dragging up, dragging down, bringing his other hand up to bite at his knuckles so his hisses and growls aren’t heard over the water.

Over and over, he goes up and down, up and down, and the lotion is a slick lubricant as he gets faster, gets sloppier; he’s on fire and the fog of the scalding water in the shower is blinding his vision, is taking away his senses, and he tugs and tugs and tugs till he’s squirting into his hand, till his howl of fulfillment is hidden beneath the pitter-patter of the shower.

-

“We can’t keep doing this, you know. You and I can’t keep doing this to Lauren or each other.”

Harry nods and sighs, curls himself closer into Niall’s side; it’s five-thirty in the morning now, and he’s been out of the shower for a few hours, and though they’ve tried to doze off and catch a few minutes of rest, it’s kind of been impossible. He grabbed his dirty clothes, put them in the washer for a good cleansing, and now he’s laid next to Niall, against Niall as he caresses Niall’s forearms up and down and up and down and up and down, in a bed that’s a hell of a lot comfortable than his empty, cold mattress at home.

“I know.” And he does know ― Lauren is a great girl, is one of the most amazing people Harry has ever had the good fortune of meeting, and she doesn’t deserve everything Harry’s doing to her. She doesn’t deserve to be led on, to be cheated on, to be lied to, but Harry doesn’t know what else to do. He’s only doing his best, and even that’s not good enough. He needs help, needs a bit of guidance, but there’s nobody around to show him the way because they all blame him. “I know, and we won’t. I just ― sometimes, I just need you, okay? I just need you sometimes, and I can’t really help myself when those moments come. I know ― I’m falling in love with you, and it’s scary, and I don’t know what to do, Niall. I don’t know what to do.”

Niall hums, brings his hand up and twines his fingers through Harry’s hair; his chest is hard, is a mountain of muscle that’s Harry’s most favorite pillow in the whole wide world. “I get that,” Niall replies, soft and quiet; the sheets are wrapped around their legs, curled around their bodies, and it’s kind of uncomfortable but Harry refuses to move, refuses to allow a bit of cloth to come between his serenity and Niall’s embrace. “I felt the same way with you. When I realized I was falling in love with you ― when I realized I was in love with you, I felt more scared than I ever have in my entire life.”

“Felt?”

“I got over it.” Niall shrugs. “I got over you.”

Harry gulps, shuts his eyes and squeezes till he can see his and Niall’s swirled colors, till the tears that pricked at his lids are gone, gone, gone.

“I’m still in love with you, though,” Niall continues, and Harry holds his breath. “I don’t think that’ll ever change, but I don’t need you anymore. I don’t need you to guide my life for me. I put all my happiness in you ― all my joy, all my excitement was on your shoulders, and that was stupid of me and not fair to you, either, ‘cause it both screwed us over in the end, and now we don’t know how to be with one another without either kissing or screaming or ignoring each other.”

Harry shakes his head. “S’okay, Ni. It’s all right, baby.”

But it isn’t okay. It’s not. And it’s not going to be, either; sometimes you get what you want, and other times you get what you need, but mostly you don’t get anything at all.

“And Lauren’s done that too, ya know. She’s put her life on your shoulders, too, and that isn’t fair for you. Not when you’re trying to live your own life. If you go down, she’s going to fall with you, and that’s not healthy for her and it isn’t nice to you.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Harry replies, and it’s a whisper that climbs in the air and hangs heavy, like a cloud full of rain that’s ready to pour down on a sad, dismal day. “I don’t want to ever let you go.”

“You’re marrying my cousin, Harry,” Niall responds, and he laughs ― he _laughs_ , and it tears Harry apart, makes his heart clench and his stomach hurt and his soul shrink. “You’re marrying her, and you can’t have me. You can’t have us both, even if we’re in love with you and you don’t want to hurt either of us. You need to choose because going back and forth is only going to get you so far, and I’m not going to be here forever. As soon as you say those vows, as soon as you sign those papers, Harry, I’m gone. I’m gone, and I’m not going to come back. You need to choose before it’s too late.”

_You. I choose you._

“But I have you now,” Harry says, and his tone is hopeful and his heart is welling and he just prays, just begs whatever deity has enough time to listen that Niall won’t ever let him go, either, even though he’s already said he will should Harry continue on with his plan. “Can I have you now?”

Niall reaches down, lifts Harry’s head up; their eyes meet, and Niall’s are dry and Harry’s are wet and Niall is smiling and Harry is frowning. “You don’t have me, Harry, and you can’t have me, either,” Niall answers, and Harry’s heart is breaking ― Harry’s heart is snapping in two, in threes and fours and fives, and he’s bleeding and screaming and warring and raging on the inside, where nobody can see, where nobody can hear. He deserves it, though ― he deserves it, doesn’t he? He’s been a horrible a person, an ignorant friend, a cheater of a fiancé ― he deserves all the bad stuff in the world because he hasn’t done anything that’s good. “Even if you break things off with Lauren, I don’t think you’ll have me. You’ve hurt me too much to deserve me, and I’ve come too far to let myself be torn back down again.”

Harry nods, wets his lips and puts his head down. “I’m sorry I can’t fix myself,” he says, sniffles, and deep in his heart, on the surface of his soul, he knows Niall’s telling the truth. He doesn’t deserve Niall, and it’s kind of sad, kind of pitiful he ever though he could have Niall’s rainbow when all he happens to be is a nasty cloud if debris that destroys. “I’m sorry, Niall.”

“There’s no need in apologizing; it isn’t going to fix anything between us,” Niall replies, bringing his knee up and knocking it into Harry’s playfully, and although Harry laughs, although Harry raises his foot to pinch at Niall’s calf with his toes, he doesn’t feel very full of lightness. He just feels empty ― empty and bare and desolate and incapable of being happy. “Let’s go grab breakfast. There’s a little place down the road that’s open today, and I don’t feel like cooking.”

Harry sighs. “Okay.”

But nothing is okay ― nothing is okay at all, and it’s not ever going to be, either. That’s the horrible truth of the world.


	31. thirty-one

“Where the fuck are my socks? What the ― where the hell are my damn socks?”

Grace chuckles, and even though her laughter is muffled from the phone, perched on the desk that’s over to the left, obscured by her hand as she apparently tries to hide the noise, Niall hears her loud. Loud and clear ― loud and clear, and she isn’t helping any at all.

In fact, she’s making it worse ― she’s making Niall regret ever wanting to try to impress his potential new boss, and she is supposed to be helping, not making everything look even uglier than it did before.

This isn’t good. This is not good.

“Gracie ―”

“Niall, sweetheart, just take it a little bit more easy, yeah?” she says, cuts him off, and Niall’s shoulders slump in a bout of defeat and depression as he kicks at the black suede pair of boots he’s got sat out to jerk on. He’s dressed ― he’s dressed, in a silk-like black suit that consists of thick slacks and a cream-colored blouse and a cuffed blazer that hugs his shoulders, makes them look a bit more broad than they are, and it’s only seven in the morning, semi-dark and cold, cold, cold, and the interview for the position at the museum isn’t set to happen till ten forty-five, after the early-morning rush but before the thicket of the afternoon, and he’s been dressed since five-thirty, and he can’t find a clean pair of socks to complete the outfit.

He can’t find a clean pair of _matching_ socks.

 _Fuck_.

He’s not going to get the job. He’s not going to get the job because he’s a mess, because he has no idea what he’s doing ― he isn’t going to get the job because he’s losing his mind over the fact that he can’t find a pair of matching socks.

Oh, dear.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Ni,” she continues, attempts to sober from her round of vicious chuckles at Niall’s expense. “You’re nervous ― you’re nervous, and that’s good because it means this interview matters to you. And you’re going to be okay, Ni; you’re the strongest person I know, and you’re going to be just fine. Promise.”

“I only have thirty minutes to find a pair of socks before the bus leaves, Gracie,” he points out, reminds her of the deadline he definitely has to meet. “I’m afraid I’m not going to make it.”

“You will,” she replies, and she’s quick to encourage him, and Niall smiles because she’s literally one of the best friends he’s ever had. “I know you will. You’re _you_ ― you’re Niall Horan. Of course you’re going to blow everybody away. There’s no way you can’t.”

Niall smiles, and his heart just kind of grows till it’s exploding with color that floods through his body like blood. “I wish you were here with me.”

“I know.” She sighs, and though the color is going fast, fast, fast through Niall’s veins, fighting amicably with the anxious rush of excitement and apprehension, Niall’s smile falls and he frowns. “I do, too.”

She’s at the pub, and has been there since before the ass crack of dawn, since before the first rays of daylight, in an effort to clean and freshen everything up before opening tonight for the first time since the epic party that was thrown there New Years ― Niall has a few photos on his phone, and some are smeared and others are blurry and the few that are still, that are calm, make Niall grin and grin and grin because he had so, so much fun that night ― and he called her a few moments prior to his abruptly-rising hysteria to ask if she was available to give him a ride to the museum, putting her on speaker so she could be heard while he searched and searched and searched for a pair of matching socks that he still can’t bloody find.

Unfortunately ― unfortunately, sadly, hopelessly, pitifully ― she isn’t, and Niall’s forced to catch a bus to the museum, and he hopes he doesn’t arrive looking disheveled, looking disgruntled; he doesn’t mind the bus or any other form of public transportation, per se, but the mess it all inevitably brings is something Niall would fare better without, for sure. First impressions matter, you know, and while it’s good to not care what others think of you, it’s also important to understand that the picture you originally paint is what everything afterward is going to be compared to.

“No,” Niall replies, groans, shakes his head. He moves to the middle of his room, falls backward onto the bed; it gives around him, swallows him whole, and he just stares up at the ceiling, blinking as he attempts to count all the swirls and strokes and strings of color that’s streaked along tiles, creating an intricate design that reminds Niall of smoke rings in the dark. “No, it’s not going to be okay at all. I can’t find any matching socks and I don’t have a ride to the museum and the bus smells like dirty feet and it’s too late to do a load of laundry and ― and I’m not going to get this job ‘cause I’m unqualified and I don’t have any clean socks.”

“Niall, you are giving me a headache.”

Niall giggles, brings his hand up and covers his mouth. “That’s not very good.”

“No, it isn’t. Thank goodness I have a hundred bottles of tequila at my disposal, though.” She laughs ― she laughs, and Niall does, too, and it’s an odd little glimmer in the back of Niall’s mind, really: Grace is perfect. Grace is wonderful ― she’s a queen, she’s a princess, she’s a caring wildflower that’s standing strong in the billowing, windy rain of Niall’s attacking insecurities.

Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with her instead of Harry ― Harry, who he left the party with; Harry, who he kissed and touched and fondled; Harry, who he wanked to between the sheets of his bed as Harry washed his dirty body; Harry, who he’s told he doesn’t want any more.

That’s a lie, though. Kind of, in a way ― Niall doesn’t want to help Harry cheat on Lauren anymore because that’s not fair to her, not nice to her, and it isn’t healthy for either of them, but he can’t help himself, really. He wants Harry as a friend, as a lover, as a significant other, and he’ll never not want Harry, but Harry is marrying his cousin, and ― and it’s bad, it’s so fucking _bad_ , but it feels good, good, good, and he can’t get enough of Harry, of the rush of doing something that he knows they aren’t supposed to do.

It’s perfect. It’s fucked up, and it’s rude and inconsiderate and disrespectful, but it’s perfect enough for Niall to smile, to feel good. And his happiness matters, too, doesn’t it?

However, if he’s happy at the expense of his cousin’s, he isn’t really happy at all. Taking away from someone’s joy is a sickness that the world needs to recover from, and Niall’s mortified to know that he’s one of the people contributing to the epidemic. Content and serene is the only level of satisfaction he’ll be able to find as long as he’s allowing himself to lose himself in the way Harry shouldn’t make him feel, in the way Harry shouldn’t kiss and touch him, in the way Harry shouldn’t look at him.

Niall is a bad person. Niall is a bad, bad person, and all would have been good if he would’ve fallen in love with Grace instead of a boy who gives his heart away like he hands smiles out to strangers on the street. It’s a shame that he doesn’t have his own heart to give to her now, though; he knows she would’ve taken much better care of it, that’s for sure.

“How much does it cost to buy a bottle of tequila from you?”

“For you?” Grace replies, makes sure Niall’s asking for himself; he hums and nods even though she can’t see him. “I’ll give it to you for free. Sometimes you just need to get shitfaced to understand just what you need to do, and I consider it a talent to assist people when they don’t know they need it most.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Since when did you become so wise?”

“Since you walked into my life and turned everything upside down.”

  _Oh_.

Oh, he did. He did, didn’t he? He met her at a pub, told her his problems with Harry, and she’s been listening to them, dealing with them ever since. _Wow_. He really has turned her life upside down, hasn’t he? In the worst of ways, too. He’s given her a lot of unnecessary stress he’s sure she doesn’t need, a lot of heaviness that weighs on her mind in the least appropriate of times, and ― and Niall’s a bad person.

Niall’s just a really, really bad person.

“I’m sorry, Gracie,” he replies, frowns; he’s mad at himself, upset at his actions, and he’s a bad person, really, who needs to be stopped. “I’m really sorry.”

“No worries,” she chirps, and she’s that kind of special, open person, you know, because Niall can tell she’s smiling just from the tone of her voice. “You’re my little sunshine. I kind of don’t want to find out what it’s like to live without you now that I’ve had you for the better part of a month.”

“That ― you can’t ―” Niall stutters, tries to reply, but he’s cut off by a loud, stern knock on the door of his flat; he pushes to sit up, raises his brows and listens for the noise. It comes again: one two three, pause, one two three. _Dammit_. “I’ve gotta go, Gracie.” He struggles to his feet, moves toward his desk and grabs his phone, clicking off the speaker and putting it to his ear. “I love you, and I’ll call you after the interview to let you know how it goes.”

“Love you, too!” is her response as Niall ends the phone call.

He exits his room, bounds down the corridor, through the messy living room and toward the door; he stands on his tiptoes, looks through the peephole, and he’s only mildly surprised to see that Harry’s standing outside, really. It’s only ever Grace or Harry nowadays.

He sighs, turns the lock and opens the door; he can’t very well leave Harry outside in that cold corridor.

And Harry’s smiling. Harry’s smiling, and he’s dressed in gray sweats and a baggy Packers hoodie that’s colored an ugly green and a thick brown jacket and knee-high boots with a speckled beanie pulled over his snarled hair, over his big ears; his eyes are red-rimmed with lavender bags underneath and his cheeks are flushed from the cold and the tip of his nose is pink, and he looks _adorable_.

Disgruntled and very, very cold ― also a bit lazy and deprived of sleep, too, and hungry, as well ― but cute, cute, cute nonetheless, in a way only Harry Styles seems to be able to pull off.

“What are you doing here?” Niall asks, straight to the point; he isn’t angry or upset, per se. He’s confused. After breakfast yesterday morning ― and it was quiet, mind you, full of accidental touches and awkward looks that burned Niall’s skin, that scorched Niall’s mind, and Niall’s confusion, befuddlement is on a level that he’s never reached in his life ― Harry dropped Niall off at his flat and drove away before Niall even entered the building.

He didn’t expect Harry to come back so quick, so fast. Not after everything that happened yesterday; caution laces his body, hardens his heart. He can’t let Harry get under his skin again, get between his sheets again ― bad things only come out of the good, and he doesn’t want to lose everything he’s fighting so hard to keep.

Harry’s grin grows; his dimples appear and his eyes crinkle and his nose wrinkles, and Niall hates how his heart palpitates at Harry’s adorable actions, hates how his breath catches, hates how his hands begin to shake and sweat with a clammy, cold wetness. “Grace text and asked me if I could give you a ride to the museum for your interview,” he answers, rolls back onto the heels of his feet; he shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweats and shrugs. “She told me if I didn’t take you she’d cut my dick off, and I’d rather like to keep that bit of my anatomy for a while longer.”

Niall coughs and chuckles, hides his sudden laughter by turning his face and pressing his mouth into his shoulder as his cheeks flame with color. Grace is a one of a kind human being with a sharp tongue and equally dazzling smile, and he loves her. He loves Gracie so, so much.

“I ― I can’t find a pair of matching socks, Harry,” Niall says, turns his head to meet Harry’s bleary, bloodshot eyes again, and if there’s anybody in the world that will understand Niall’s need to have the same sock on each foot, it’ll be Harry. “I’m going to have to wear mismatched socks to the most important interview of my life.”

Harry shrugs again, loose and gangly, and gives Niall a lopsided, crooked grin that makes Niall melt from the inside out, and he’s a puddle of affection, of adoration on the floor beneath his bare feet. “S’okay, baby. Mine don’t match, either.”

-

Harry rubs at his puffy, sleepy eyes and yawns, quiet and gentle, and it’s a wide-mouthed breath of tired air that makes Niall’s jaws twitch to follow Harry’s actions; he’s been up since five-thirty, and it’s only now eight ― of course he’s tired.

It’s hard sleeping by himself when he knows how it feels to not sleep alone.

“Did Gracie text and wake you up?” he asks, attempts a bit of civil conversation; he reaches forward, grabs at the glass jar of syrup and pours a generous amount on the three pancakes he ordered, mixing it with the whipped cream and powdered sugar he requested to be added on.

Harry’s paying, and Niall’s going to take advantage of that. What friend wouldn’t?

After a bit of an impromptu scavenger hunt for socks ― Niall’s moderately proud to say that he’s wearing mismatching socks, and though that kind of irks his sensitivity level, Harry’s cackle of light laughter has made it all worth it, really ― Harry talked Niall into stopping by a tiny diner for a bite to eat before the interview. It’s warm and cozy inside, too, and the people are nice and it isn’t crowded, and he and Harry are sat right next to the entrance, and it’s quite fun watching as the sidewalks come alive the later it gets.

Harry nods, scratches at the mole that’s down from the corner of his bottom lip. “I don’t start back to work till the fifth ‘cause Paul won’t be returning from Spain before then, I think,” he replies, taking a sip of his orange juice ― Harry hates coffee in the morning, doesn’t like the bitter blackness or the too-sweet trend of iced lattes that gives him brain freezes at the worst times, and that’s odd because he tends to crave a drink of the stuff after the sun’s gone down, when everything is winding to a slow movement, but Niall never questions it. Harry is a complex man, and Niall kind of likes how he hasn’t figured everything out, kind of likes how there’s no end of Harry’s charms in sight. “I’ve been catching up on a little bit of sleep till then.”

“Oh.” Niall purses his lips, cuts a weird sort of triangle in his mountain of pancakes and forks the fluffiness into his mouth, and it’s probably the best breakfast he’s had in a long, long time. It reminds him of his mum, of her habit to cook and cook and cook whenever she has any form of a guest over. He misses her loads ― her and his dad and his brother and his legendary little nephew, Theo. He’s going to make the cutest ring bearer at the wedding. “How’s work going? You’re still liking your job? No problems in the workplace?”

Harry nods, toying with the decorative wrapping that’s hugging his blueberry muffin; it’s a bit chilly in the diner as they’re sat by the entrance, and the heat rising off of the baked goodie is in the form of a misty cloud of fog.

“Yeah. I like it a lot. S’great first job for somebody like me.” He smiles, and it’s a tired grin that makes Niall smile, too, because it’s hard to not find joy, to find a little bit of lightness whenever he’s around Harry, really ― no matter what happened in the past, no matter what’s happening now, no matter what’s going to happen in the very uncertain future they’re all facing, Harry is the only one that can make Niall smile when he doesn’t want to, when he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to laugh again. Harry is Niall’s rockstar. “Paul’s such an awesome boss, and the people at the office welcomed me with open arms. It’s all just a big family there, and I’m really happy to say that I think they consider me as one of them now.”

“That’s good ― that’s great.” Niall hides his mouth full of food behind the napkin as he speaks, and he means it ― it always feels nice to be accepted, to be silently supported, and Niall’s the only one who knew about Harry’s worry of not being liked when he first started his job. Oh, how he was wrong. “I mean, it’s kinda hard to not like you. You’re kind of perfect.”

Harry slants his eyes, raises his brow; his expression is borderline sad, but he isn’t frowning, and Niall realizes he messed up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

_Lie, lie, lie._

“When’s Lauren coming back, Harry?”

Harry visibly stiffens, tightens and strains, and Niall’s sorry, _so sorry,_ but he can’t forget about her ― she’s his cousin, and he shouldn’t have been forgetting about her in the first place, shouldn’t have been allowing Harry to have his wicked ways with Niall when she is the only one that ought to see Harry in the way Niall has: bare, naked, stripped of everything and anything all at once. But ― but Harry has a way of making him lose his mind, of making him forget everything he should remember, of making him feel stars and taste galaxies and feel as if he’s dancing in oceans that are deeper than their odd sort of love and almost love, and it’s a beautiful curse and an ugly blessing that is only one of Harry’s many redeeming effects.

Effects because it isn’t a quality ― because Niall shouldn’t allow himself to fall under Harry’s spell over and over and over when he knows Harry’s only going to run back to Lauren at the end of the day.

He’s scared. Harry’s scared, and that’s plain as day to see. Harry’s scared, and Niall’s hurt, and Lauren’s oblivious, and they make the perfect little group, don’t they?

Fucking wonderful.

“The eighth,” Harry replies, bitten and sharp; his nose is flared and his eyes are wide and his cheeks are flushed, and Niall’s sorry, sorry, sorry, but he won’t utter an apology because they both know Niall has nothing to repent for. Not yet, at least. “I’m going to the airport to get her, and then we’re going out to dinner together.”

“Oh?” The pain in Niall’s chest isn’t near as heavy, near as harsh as the pain he can see on Harry’s face, in Harry’s pretty, pretty eyes, and it’s odd, but he feels so, so powerful at the knowledge that Harry is experiencing everything Niall is, too. Only worse. “Whose idea was that?”

Harry gulps; his hands are shaking as they peel at the wrapping on the muffin, but his eyes never leave Niall’s, and he’s stronger than Niall thought. “Hers.”

Niall wets his lips, sets his fork down and reaches for his coffee, swallowing the hot liquid till all he can feel is the burn of the bitterness in his throat. It’s better than the viscidity of pitying himself for not being able to have the one thing he wants most, he reckons, and he’ll take physical pain over mental because the former always gets better, in the end, and the latter never goes away, it seems.

“Good.” Niall nods and forces a smile, but it’s not fake ― it’s forced, but it isn’t fake, and that’s what matters, at the end of the day, isn’t it? He’s _trying_ ― he’s trying just like Harry asked him to do, and Harry can’t be mad over something that was his idea initially. “She’ll really like spending some time with you after staying a while with our family.”

Harry’s lips twitch, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his mouth, a hint of a grin that lets Niall know he’s remembering all the times they’ve spent time with one another’s family, and Niall wants to paint Harry’s face over and over and over again, from different angles with a variety of lighting and colors and shadows and bases. Harry has the kind of smile that can outshine every single shining star, and Niall is still stunned every time he’s able to see the masterpiece.

“They’re… They’re really kind of wild, aren’t they?”

Niall nods. “I can’t wait to see everybody again at the wedding in February,” he says, sneaky and rude, and Harry’s tiny smile falls away, and Niall can’t find it in him to care when he sees Harry wipe at his eyes, when he hears the acute intake of an unsettling breath.

It’s quiet after that, and Niall doesn’t really care. He doesn’t care at all.

And he isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

-

The museum is large and white, and it smells like daisies and vanilla and dust and ripe history; there’s marble all over the place, and the walls are covered in a pale, creamy design that depicts Greek scenes of drama, of art, and Niall loves specific attention to detail each little nook and cranny is tuned to. The seats are soft outside of the main office, sat in a strange shape and colored to match the walls, and the magazines on the tables are the latest editions, and they’re a nice distraction from the nerves, from the apprehension, from the crippling anxiety of the what if’s rolling, running, riding through Niall’s mind.

His leg is trembling and his knee is bouncing and his neck is sweating and his fingers are fumbling as he absently turns through the pages of a magazine about cooking organically; he’s only seeing half the words, only understanding half of what’s printed because his head is elsewhere.

He’s nervous. He’s nervous, and all he can remember is what Grace told him: if he’s nervous, it means it matters to him, and ― and this potential job means so, so much more than Niall himself can comprehend.

This is his life, and he doesn’t know what to do should he not secure the position, hasn’t really thought about a plan B

“You’ve got the position, Niall.”

Oh. Looks like he didn’t have to plan ahead.

Niall looks up from the magazine he was flipping through, and he’s met with a pair of silvery-gray eyes and a wide smile that’s dimpled at the corners, flashing white teeth that make Niall self-conscious of his own. The man standing before him is tall, with pepper-colored hair and broad shoulders and narrow hips; his suit is dark blue and trimmed to perfection, styled to meet every single law of fashion there is, and Niall knows ― he knows his man is Sal Piersant, knows this man is Niall’s hero in Armani with leather boots and a gold watching hanging from his side pocket.

 _Fuck_.

“What ― what do you mean I have the job?” he asks, stutters, wets his lips and hopes that his tongue doesn’t thicken in the way that his heart is. He can’t play off a lisp like he can a stutter; he isn’t that talented. “You ― I’ve not even been interviewed yet. How have I already gotten the job?”

Sal smiles. “Son, you’ve had the position since before I called you to let you know,” he answers, and his words are followed by a laugh; he extends his hand for a shake, and Niall slips his fingers around Sal’s wrist, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet as they politely greet one another. “I spoke with your university counsellors and professors, as well as some references and reliable sources I was recommended to chat with. Your credentials are amazing; you blew me away on paper, and then you blew me away when I found out how smart and hardworking you are, too.”

Fuck. Fuck, did he talk to Allan?

“Relax, Niall. Everything’s just fine.” Sal’s smile grows, and it’s only then that Niall realizes how hard he’s been squeezing the man’s hand, how white his knuckles have become. “You’ve got the position, and you start on the fifteenth, and everything is going to be just fine because you are exactly the kind of person we need to lead us into the future.”

Oh.

Oh, wow. He’s got the job. Wow.

It all hits Niall, then, and he smiles ― he smiles, and it’s one of those little twitchy smirks that start off small but grows and grows and grows till it’s a full-on grin, with teeth and thinned lips and all. His body is burning in the best of ways and his cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are wide, and he’s a flash of color in the whiteness of the waiting room, a blur of rainbow in a drab world.

“We had to have you come in for paperwork and security reasons,” Sal continues, and it’s going in one ear and out of the other as Niall’s mind repeats, over and over and over: _I’ve got the job, I’ve got the job, I’ve got the job_. “And you need to come in at nine-thirty the thirteenth of January so you and I can have a total run-through of the rules and regulations you’re to abide by and meet as an employee here, though I’m sure we’ll not have any trouble out of you at all. You’re a stunning young man, and I am looking forward to working with you.”

Niall shakes his head in disbelief, in electric shock and numbing, elated joy. “Thank you so much,” he says, and it’s quiet and soft and breathless, but he can’t get any louder, can’t get any harder.

He’s ― he’s soft. He’s got the job, and he’s happy, and he’s _soft_ ― mushy and liquid-like and pliant. He’s so, so soft.

Sal chuckles, puts his hand out and rubs at Niall’s tense shoulders. “I can promise you that I’m as glad to have you here as you are to be here. Shannon hardly ever recommends me people to look in to, and when he does, I know I shouldn’t take his words lightly. He’s a great judge of character, and I can see why he liked you from the start. You’re an absolute gem.”

“Will ― will you tell him I said thank you, please?” Niall asks, and he’s like a child, like a begging kid who is asking for more cookies before he’s sent to bed for the night to dream about all the sweetness he wasn’t allowed to devour. “I don’t know how to contact him, and I would appreciate it if you let him know how grateful I am for him.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you’re thankful; I’m meeting up with him for lunch, anyway, and I know he’s going to be excited to find out that you’ve gotten the job.” Sal nods, agrees. “In fact, I’m picking up my wife, and we’re all going out to eat a bite. I’ll see you the fifteenth at nine?”

Niall nods ― and nods and nods and nods, over and over and over, and Sal is laughing and Niall is blushing and it’s all a mess, but it’s a _good_ mess, a _great_ mess, and Niall’s got the job.

Niall’s got his dream job.

Niall’s going to make it. Holy shit. Niall’s going to _make it._

Just like Grace said, just like Harry said ― _he’s going to make it._

He floats on a cloud of total jubilance out of the museum, toward Harry’s car where it’s parked at the front of the lot, running and warm and comfortable. Harry’s sat inside, bundled up and scratching at his nose as he taps viciously at his phone; Niall grips the handle, opens the door and slides in, and the smile on his face sets off a grin from Harry, and Harry knows before Niall even says anything.

“You got it.”

Niall nods. “I got it, Harry.”

Harry shuts his eyes, locks his phone and sets it down in one of the cup holders; he leans his head back against the seat, breathing evenly and deeply, and Niall’s heart is a pounding rush of glee in his chest that’s making him vibrate, that’s making him quake and bounce and shudder and rattle.

He got the job.

He got the job, and he’s going to make it.

_He’s going to make it._

“Can I give you a hug, Niall?”

And, just like that, Niall’s smile is gone, and he’s shaking his head ― because Harry’s wearing his ring, because Harry ought to know better than to ask, because Harry is the one thing in Niall’s system that needs to run its course so he can leave, leave, leave.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Niall replies, and Harry’s smile drops and he nods, moving to put the car in gear; Niall’s prickling now, itchy and uncomfortable, and he wants to touch Harry’s hand, wants to lace their fingers together, but Harry’s wearing his fucking _wedding ring_ and Niall refuses to let himself fall again. “Thank you for taking me, by the way. I really appreciate it, Harry. You’ve helped me out a lot.”

Harry nods, purses his lips and gives Niall a short look as he drives out of the lot, toward the little stretch of road that leads to the main highway. “No problem,” he replies, and there’s no baby. There’s no baby. “We’ll have to celebrate soon.”

There’s no baby, no term of endearment, no little bit of affection that’s _just Harry_ , and it hurts Niall a lot more than it probably should.  


	32. thirty-two

Lauren is standing right in front of him, weighed down with two large duffel bags that’s hanging from her shoulder and held in her hand; she’s wrapped up tight, tight, tight in in a thick black jacket and yellow sweater and blue jeans and cream-colored leg warmers and insulated boots. She looks good and comfortable and warm and what Harry’s always imagined fluffiness would be like if it were a person.

And it is, kind of. Fluffiness is Lauren.

The airport terminal is crowded, is filled to the brim with people coming and going, pressing and pushing; their bags are large and their smiles are even bigger as they sway and dance through the horde of people, dodging around and through and behind and between to get where they’re going, where they need to be. The airport terminal is crowded, and Harry hates being around a lot of people, hates being by himself in a bunch of bodies whom he doesn’t know because it makes him feel uncomfortable, makes him feel lost and out of place ― Harry hates it, but he only has eyes for Lauren, and she can’t take her eyes off of his face, and that kind of makes everything just a little bit bearable than before.

Her light brown hair is in a mess, knotted on top of her head in a tangled, floppy bun with flyaway tresses and tendrils that curl around her cheeks and neck; her eyes are puffy and her face is blotched with red marks and her nose is pink and her lips are chapped. She makes a face, crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out at Harry in greeting.

He rolls his eyes and laughs, hides the noise behind his hand as he takes a few steps to get closer.

He’s kind of missed her, you know. Sure, he’s engaged to marry her next month and she’s completely in love with him, and though he doesn’t feel the same for her, she’s still a very important person to him.

And ― and he hopes, no matter what happens in the future, that she’ll always, _always_ , be a friend to him. She does mean a lot to him. Maybe not as much as Niall does ― definitely not as much as Niall does ― but enough for her absence to take a toll on his mind, on his heart.

There’s no guarantee that he and her will still remind friends, though. She’s intelligent and smart and understanding, and she doesn’t like to be mean, doesn’t like to be rude, but if ― when, because that’s a total possibility that Harry tries to not dwell on ― she finds out about Harry and Niall’s extracurricular activities with one another behind her back, under her nose, he’s afraid she’ll rage.

And rage. And rage and rage and _rage_.

Of course, he won’t blame her if she did. How could he? If their roles were reversed ― if it was him in love with somebody who went behind his back and cheated on him with his best friend, and he somehow found out through the lies and faking and smeared emotions, he isn’t sure he would be able to keep his cool, isn’t sure if he would be able to hold tight to the calmness in his mind that he’s been able to find lately.

If Lauren goes mad, goes on a rampage, Harry won’t blame her _. He won’t._

He won’t because he knows he would act the very same way ― love is the most beautiful thing in the world, but it’s also the ugliest, too, and Harry’s playing both sides of the same coin at the moment.

In fact, he may even join her. How lovely that would be, two people losing their minds because they’ve lost their hearts ― a tragic tale of love gone wrong and love gone right.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, and it’s like a whisper, kind of; it gets swept away in the crowd of plunging people, of grasping bodies, but Harry knows what she’s saying because he feels the same way, too.

It’s odd. It’s odd because he always forgets about how much he cares for Lauren when he’s with Niall, when he’s tangled in Niall’s arms and wrapped in the sheets around Niall’s body. He loves her ― he isn’t _in_ love with her, mind you, and that is two completely different things that he’s only just now realizing, and it’s a shame to have lived your life one way for so long, but at least he’s owning up to it ― and he really does care about her. He really, really does.

And he doesn’t know how to show her how much he cares except for marrying her. After all, he’s what she wants most in the world, it seems, and she deserves to have him after all that he’s done to her, after all that he continues to do to her.

He doesn’t understand it, though, how both Lauren and Niall could want somebody like him. He doesn’t think he’s a bad person ― he reckons it probably depends on who you ask; an opinion is an opinion, and it’s neither right nor wrong, but words hurt and Harry’s lucky to have hardened himself against useless ramblings long ago ― and he knows he has a few good qualities about himself, but there’s the bad, too. There’s the bad, as there always is, and the bad definitely overwhelms the good, and he doesn’t deserve the love he’s getting from these two wonderful, amazing people.

He’s isn’t worthy of it. He isn’t.

But he wants to be. Oh God, he wants to be _so bad_. He wants to be worthy of Lauren, wants to be worthy of Niall, wants to be worthy of the love they’ve shown him time and time again, over and over and over.

And ― and he must learn to be content with being happier (more fortunate and blessedly lucky) than he deserves, just as Jane Austen wrote.

Harry wonders how Jane Austen ever thought of that line, really, wonders if she ever experienced a little bit of messy complications in her life.

“I’ve missed you, too, sunshine,” he says, reaches forward and wraps his arms around her shoulders, jerking her into him. She feels soft and smells like vanilla and sugar; her body gives to his, bends and molds and forms, and her grip is tight as she nuzzles into his chest, as she makes herself at home against his heart. “I missed you, too.”

She does have a little bit of it, you know. His heart, that is. He really was in love with her ― he was, and he’ll never say he wasn’t because that would be lying, and he hates the way it feels to tell fibs. It was fast and it was loud and it was messy, when he fell for her, and he really was in love with her.

It was real, but it wasn’t the best ― it wasn’t the best because Niall is the best.

“Sunshine?” she repeats, and her giggles are a soft thunder against his heart and her touch is lightning against his skin. “That’s new. Very nice, too.”

“Oh, hush.” He pulls away, leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead ― because the last person he kissed was Niall, was when they were getting ready to leave Niall’s flat New Year’s Day after talking between the sheets of the bed to grab some breakfast. Niall caught Harry off guard, put his lips to Harry’s for a short, chaste kiss, and the eruption of warmth in Harry’s tummy still hasn’t gone away. It was the only thing that helped Harry keep his cool after Niall refused his hug. “It’s ‘cause of the sweater, silly girl. Is it new? It looks really nice on you.”

She nods, steps to the side to allow a young girl with three little children following her by. “My dad bought it for me at a little boutique down the road from his job,” she replies, and her smile is large and dazzling, and ― and she’s the only person in the whole damn world who the sun is shining on. Blissful ignorance seems to be the only way to go, it seems. “In fact, my dad is also seeing the owner of the boutique, and I got to meet her during the holiday.”

“Oh?” Harry raises a brow, takes one of the bags from her and throws it over his shoulder; it’s heavy and thick and bulky, and he wonders just what all she’s carrying in the thing. “He’s getting ‘round to seeing a few women now?”

“Yeah,” she replies, grappling for Harry’s hand, interlacing their fingers as they shove through the congestion toward the exit of the terminal. “He and mum have been divorced for three years now, and I guess it’s only normal for them to start seeing other people.”

“How do you feel about that?” Harry asks, tries to remember what it was like when his parents divorced. He was only eight at the time, and they split on amicable terms ― Harry and Gemma didn’t have to play a game on who was going where for the holidays or breaks because their mother and father were mature and mannerly enough to still come together as friends for their children whenever it was needed. However, it was odd when his mum started seeing Robin, and even more strange when they married and he was the best man at the wedding when we was eighteen. But Lauren’s older than he was, and she’s a different person, as well, and what Harry went through isn’t going to be the same as what she’s dealing with. “About your dad seeing another woman, I mean.”

“Mum’s been honest with me about seeing other men,” she answers, and it’s soft and delicate, and Harry’s fingers tighten around hers because he knows ― he knows she’s strong, knows she’s resilient and independent and spunky, but even she needs a little bit of help from other people every once in a while. She doesn’t have to be strong all the time. “And I’m not against them moving on from one another, either. It’s just ― it’s really weird for me, you know, to see my parents date. It should be me bringing home people for them to meet and assess, not the other way around.”

But ― but Harry already met her family before he met her. Niall’s the one who introduced him to his and Lauren’s family. Ha.

“I understand.” Harry nods, tugs on her hand and moves so they’re at the side of the terminal, away from the heart of the crowd and next to the floor-to-ceiling windows; it’s snowing outside and everything’s covered in a layer of dusty white, and it’s pretty enough for Harry to almost pretend everything’s going to be okay. “I mean, I was fifteen when mum and Robin started dating, and it was weird, but I could see how much they really cared for one another, and dad supported her moving on to other people, too. I think ― mostly, it’s the support that matters.” He nods, purses his lips and looks over at her; her dark blue eyes are wide and the lavender-colored bags beneath are bringing out every single highlight in her irises. “As long as you support them, it’ll all be okay.”

She smiles, and Harry’s heart warms ― and then it’s cold and hot, burning at his soul, because he’s leading her on, and though he isn’t faking or pretending right now, he isn’t telling her the whole truth. He’s _lying_ to her.

“My family loves you, you know,” she says, and it’s a quiet acknowledgement that sears Harry’s heart and makes him hurt and hurt and hurt. “I mean, how could they not? You’re magnificent, and they’re all really very excited about the wedding, too. They can hardly wait for it.”

Harry grins ― or, well, tries to, at least, though he isn’t entirely sure if he succeeds or not. It’s the thought that counts, in the end.  

“My mum was very surprised, but she’s proud,” Harry tells her, and Anne is ― she’s excited and she’s proud, yes, and she’s also supporting Harry, too, after he sat her down and explained everything to her (since Gemma let it slip through the Skype call about Harry’s problem) and even though she’s of a mind that his decision to handle things is wrong, is very scattered, she’s said she’ll stand behind him. And that means the whole world to him. “She’s excited, too. They all are.”

“Are you?” Lauren gives him a look, and her eyes are dark and her lips are chapped and her face is streaked with red blotches and her nose is kind of oily, and she’s beautiful, and she doesn’t deserve everything Harry’s doing to her. She doesn’t deserve anything at all. “Are you excited to marry me, Harry?”

Harry swallows, and the sweat that breaks out across his neck, across his back, across his forehead makes him cold, makes him shiver and quake and shudder till he isn’t sure of who he even is anymore. How can he answer that question when he doesn’t even know the answer himself ― how can he describe a feeling he’s never felt with words he’s never heard?

Everything’s a lot more complicated than what it seems, and Harry doesn’t even understand it. How is he expected to explain it all to Lauren when he doesn’t know what the hell is going on half the time?

Most of the time.

Harry just wants to be happy, really. Harry just wants the people around him to be happy, too.  

But that’s not going to happen, is it? No matter what Harry chooses to do, somebody is going to get hurt ― somebody is going to get hurt, and he’d rather it be him than Niall or Lauren. He’d rather suffer himself if it means the two people who can make him smile are happy themselves, and ― and that’s important, isn’t it? Giving up his own happiness so other people can be happy?  

“Harry ―”

“I’m really excited to see what’s going to happen, sunshine,” he says, grins and leans over, pressing another kiss against her forehead as she giggles, as she tucks herself against him like she belongs ― where she belongs.

 _Dammit_.

\-  

“I’m starving. There is a high possibility that I could eat the entire menu today.”

Harry looks over at Lauren, sees that she has shed her heavy black jacket and is now propping her feet up on the dash of the vehicle as they drive down the street; Augustana is playing on the radio and she’s tapping her fingers on her knees along to the beat, and Harry’s still awed at how quickly she’s taken to one of his favorite bands.

“Did you not eat on the plane?”

She curls her nose up, gives him a look that makes him bark a laugh as he flicks on his blinker and enters the parking lot of the restaurant she’s chosen to dine at. “Yuck,” she replies, groans and shakes her head. “For one, it’s expensive, and I don’t fancy breaking my bank for a little bag of peanuts.” Harry scoffs, rolls his eyes and maneuvers the car to find a relatively close parking space; just like Lauren doesn’t fancy breaking her bank, he doesn’t fancy walking in the cold, cold weather for very long. “And another, I’ve been looking forward to having dinner with you since I left. I feel like we’ve not sat down and talked to each other in so long, and I miss it. I miss you a lot, Harry.”

Oh, dear. She’s just trying to snap Harry’s heart in two, isn’t she?

And ― and it’s working. Of course it’s working. He doesn’t have a heart to take proper care of, anyway.

“I know, sunshine. I know.” He sighs, parks the car and puts it in gear; he turns it off, grabs his wallet and opens his door, walking around the front to meet Lauren and intertwine their fingers as they begin their way toward the entrance. “Niall got a job, you know. He starts on the fifteenth of this month.”

Lauren grins. “I do know,” she replies, and Harry doesn’t think anything of it; she’s Niall’s cousin and Grace’s friend, and it’s only understandable for her to be aware of Niall’s accomplishments, too. There’s nothing for Harry to look into. “I called him before I left and he told me the news, so I asked him to come out and celebrate with us tonight.”

_What the fuck?_

“You did what?”

She nods. “Yeah.” They step over a frozen bit of blacktop; Harry’s knees wobble in a bit of disbelief as he moves up onto the sidewalk behind her, beside her. “Grace is coming, too, and the four of us all need to sit down and have a chat about the wedding, anyway. I’m too wired from the flight to sleep, and I want to talk with everybody before I forget what I need to say. Besides, I need to make plans with Niall to go dress shopping, and ― and aren’t you going to ask him to be your best man soon? He told me you haven’t asked.”

“Oh.” Bloody fuck, this isn’t good ― this is not good, this is not good, _this is not good_. “I just ― it’s kind of a given, you know. I didn’t think I would have to ask him to be something he already knows he is.”

And he is, isn’t he? Niall is Harry’s best man ― Niall is Harry’s best everything.

It’s a shame it’s taken him this long to realize it, though.

“True,” she agrees, reaches forward and tugs open the door for them, and they go inside; the restaurant smells like spice and sauce, and it’s warm and welcoming from the chilly cold out, and Harry’s stomach abruptly growls, eliciting a laugh from Lauren and a sheepish shrug from him. “But I think it would mean a lot more to him ― and to you, too ― if you actually surprised him and asked. It ought to make a good memory the two of you want to keep forever.”

“I’m not marrying him. I’m marrying you.”

_I shouldn’t have to ask Niall to be my best man when he’s going to leave me either way, no matter what I do to make things right._

“I know.” She looks at him, rubs her thumb on the sharpness of his knuckles, and though Harry prefers Niall’s touch, she calms his racing heart down enough so he can breathe a bit better. “I know you are, but Niall means a lot to you, too, and I want you to realize that just because it’s you and I doesn’t mean you have to give up Niall, as well. He’s still your best friend, and I know you’re the brother he’s always wanted. He’s closer to you than he is Greg, and ― and you love him. I want him to be okay with our marriage just as much as I want you to be okay with it, too. The two of you mean the world to me.”

Oh. Oh, she is just so open-minded and understanding that it’s making Harry _sick_.

Harry opens his mouth to reply, to stutter and sputter and smear his words together, but he’s cut off when they’re approached by a short man with blond hair and dark eyes and a white polo.

“Hi,” he says, deep and accented ― he’s an American. “Table for two?”

“For four,” Lauren replies with a smile. “We have two people coming to meet us. In fact, they may already be here. Is there a Niall Horan or Grace Hicks here?”

The man ― his nametag reads Britton ― nods. “He just arrived,” he replies, turning to walk through the foyer and into the main room, motioning for Harry and Lauren to follow along behind him.

They meander through the restaurant, passed tables and booths and chairs and people who are minding their own business when the world is falling apart around them, and Harry likes the layout, always has been partial to black and red because it makes everything dark and dim and cozy, in a weird sort of way.

“Here we are,” the man says, swinging his arm out wide as he spots Niall and Grace in the back, against a wall. “I’ll take your drink orders, and then I’ll be back to get what you want to eat.”

Harry takes a deep breath, tugs his eyes off of the decorative flowers and painted portraits; he looks forward, sees that Niall and Grace are sat at a booth with black cushions. Grace is dressed in a wildflower-print sweater and white jeans, and Niall ― Niall’s wearing a gray hoodie and blue jeans and boots, and his blue, blue eyes are wide and fresh and raw, he looks precious, looks perfect, looks comfortably cuddly and cozy, and Harry just wants to fall into his arms and make himself at home.

Because Niall is Harry’s _home_ , and it’s pitiful that it’s taken him so long to figure it out.

“I ― I think I’m going to go to the restroom really quick, Lauren,” Harry hisses, whispers to Lauren as they approach, and he thinks he’s being quiet, thinks he’s being inconspicuous, but he isn’t ― he isn’t because Niall looks at him, because Niall raises a brow and asks the silent question everybody must be wondering: _Are you okay?_ And the answer is no, he isn’t. “Order me a water, please. I’ll ― I won’t be long.”

“I think I’ll go with you,” Niall says ― _no, no, no, no_ ― and he’s sliding out of the booth and standing up, giving Harry a smile as Lauren moves to sit beside Grace, immediately beginning a conversation that Harry can’t hear at all because his entire focus on is Niall, Niall, Niall. “I need to go, too.”

Harry gulps. “Okay.”

The two of them weave through the restaurant and toward the restroom, which is located at the back of the building; they’re quiet and it’s awkward and uncomfortable and so, so intense that Harry can feel the waves of nausea, the rush of apprehension and anxiety roll over him and attach to his skin like a second layer.

Harry shoves open the restroom door, rushes inside and makes a beeline toward one of the three stalls, but before he can get away from Niall, before he can create some much-needed space between them, Niall is reaching forward and grabbing Harry’s shoulder, stilling his movements and stopping his forward progress.

“Niall ―”

Harry turns, and his shoulder is burning; he sees Niall shake his head and lock the door, and ― and since when do they put locks on public restroom doors? What the hell?

“We have to talk,” Niall says, and it’s four words that make Harry crumble because he never thought he would hear them coming out of Niall’s pretty, pretty mouth.

 


	33. thirty-three

“No. No, Niall, don’t.” Harry jerks free from Niall’s grasp; it wasn’t all that tight to begin with, anyway, but his touch is a scorching sensation against Harry’s skin and he can’t do it. “ _Don’t_. Please ― please don’t do it, Niall. _Please_.”

Harry’s begging ― Harry’s begging, and for what, he isn’t sure. But he knows, _he knows_ , that what’s coming is going to tear him even further apart, is going to squeeze and constrict around his heart till the only thing keeping him alive is the sheer willpower to make Niall and Lauren happy, and, the thing is, he needs help. He needs help pulling himself back together, needs help figuring out his life, needs help thinking and doing and acting and being independently, without the reliance of those around him; Gemma talked him up, gave him not only confidence but motivation and drive and will to do better, to be better, too, but Harry can’t do this by himself.

He needs help.

He needs help, and Niall isn’t going to be the one that assists him this time, is he?

Not ― not now. Not after everything that Harry has done.

And that brings around another question, really: does Harry deserve to be helped? Does he, after all that he has caused, intentionally and unintentionally, deserve to be helped out of the mess, out of the black hole he’s created that’s sucking everybody he loves deep inside?

No.

Not really.

Even he knows the answer to that question; there’s no point in asking somebody else, really.

Niall slants his head, and he looks so good, so pretty and fresh and raw and _real_ in a sense that he’s a mess, too, that he has little bags of light lavender beneath his eyes, that the laugh lines around his mouth seem to be a permanent indention next to his lips, that his clothes are casual, that his hair is mussed and disheveled, and Harry’s swooning.

Harry’s swooning, and he’s scared ― he’s swooning and scared and so, so sensitive that, with a gust of wind, a flick of the wrist, a harshly-colored tone of one word, he would be gone.

Gone, gone, gone, like a thief in the wind.

That’s good, though, isn’t it? It’s for the best that he’s gone, right?

Maybe.

He doesn’t really know very much anymore.

“Do what?” Niall asks, walks forward a bit, and it scares Harry, frightens Harry to the point where he’s backing away blindly, quick and swift and sloppy; his spine hits the column of the stall and it’s a pain that he hardly feels as Niall uselessly reaches out for him. “Harry? Harry, do what ― what do you think I’m going to do?”

Harry doesn’t know.

Harry doesn’t know, and that’s the thing. Not knowing is horrifying, is terrifying, and ― and Harry just wants to know what’s bouncing around in Niall’s brain, what’s fishing and flying and floating and freefalling around in that pretty head of his.

But he can’t know; magic isn’t something Harry’s ever showed an interest in, and it’s arguably too late to dabble in a bit of black power, really.

“Harry, what do you think I’m going to do?”

“I don’t know!” Harry replies ― screams, yells, hollers, and he’s hoping, praying, that they’re far enough away from the girls that neither of them hear his exclamation. “I don’t know what you’re going to say, Niall.”

“Then why are you acting so scared if you have no idea what I’m going to say?” Niall asks, and his brows are furrowed and his left hand is outreached, just a teeny tiny bit, and Niall’s not understanding.

_Niall is not understanding._

“I’m not acting, Ni,” Harry says, whispers, and it’s such a contrast to his scream just seconds before that he has to take a moment to calm his pulsing heart, to ease the thunder and lightning and flooding emotions that are running, raging, rocking through his body; he can only handle so much, and he feels like he’s going to fall over from the exhaustion, from the tumult of it all, and it isn’t like he has anybody next to him to help. “I’m not acting. I really am scared.”

Niall blinks, drops his hand back to his side, and Harry wishes it didn’t hurt to see Niall give up that little battle but it does ― it does, and all Harry can see in his mind is guns and roses, pretty steel and silky-soft petals. “Why? Why are you scared, Harry? _Why_?”

Harry shuts his eyes, tips his head back and expels a loud, long breath; he’s hoping, praying that a bit of air is going to relax his mounting fear, is going to warm the gooseflesh off of his skin, is going to ease the beating rush in his chest, but the restroom smells like chemicals and vanilla, and it isn’t helping,

It isn’t helping because Harry doesn’t deserve to be helped.

Also, he hates the smell of vanilla.

“I don’t know what you’re going to say to me,” Harry acquiesces, and it leaves a nasty taste in his mouth, makes his stomach quiver with some sort of fried emotion to admit that he is so, so lost in what’s going on around him. He’s never been the one confused before, but now ― now, that’s all he feels. “I don’t know what you’re going to say to me, and that scares me more than anything I ever remember. I’m not acting.”

_I’m not, I’m not, I’m not._

Niall wets his lip, and his tongue is a sinful instrument of epic proportions, and Harry’s caught between wanting to flee out of the restroom, out of the restaurant, toward his car and down the road to his mum’s so he can run away from his problems or ask Niall to nicely ― nicely, politely, _filthily_ ― get on his knees to suck Harry off, to curl and flick and suckle and swallow.

Swallow it all.

Oh. Oh, dear.

“I think ― not knowing should make you happy, Harry,” Niall says, and walks forward again, with an easy smile on his face, and Harry doesn’t have anything to do, doesn’t have anywhere to go, so he just tenses his body, tightens his muscles because he knows Niall’s touch is coming, and ― and he isn’t in the right mind to handle that explosion, that implosion. “You don’t know what I’m going to say or what I’m going to do, and… You should be happy you don’t know, not scared. Trust me.”

“Is it bad?” Harry whispers through gyrated teeth. “What you’re going to say to me.”

Niall shrugs his shoulders ― what a lot of help that is. “It depends on how you want to take it, I guess,” he replies, offers a bit of a smile that makes Harry’s heart screw up into a ball and burn, burn, burn, and he doesn’t want to be touched, doesn’t want to be seen.

“Niall ―”

“I ― I’m not going to touch you, Harry. You… you look really worried right now, and I won’t touch you unless you want me to. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”

A wave of relief rushes over Harry, and it’s like a warm, pelting shower at the end of the day, washing away all of the transgressions and trespasses Harry’s committed, cleansing him only to allow him to sin again the next day, over and over and over.

He can’t win. He isn’t going to be the one that wins this battle; he’s already lost the war.

“That ― I’m so sorry, but ―please, yes.” Harry’s a stuttering mess, sputtering words left and right, and none of them make any coherent sense but somehow, someway, it all makes perfect cognizance. “Please get away from me for a minute.”

Niall nods and steps away, and there’s a sink on the wall behind him that Harry didn’t realize at first, pearl-colored and decorated with black granite; Niall hops on top of the thing and swings his legs, and Harry’s whisked back to the day at the shopping mall when he and Niall kissed and kissed and kissed, when he and Niall rutted and thrusted and bucked and came in their pants because they couldn’t come in one another.

Yeah.

Yeah, that was a good day.

But the days after weren’t, were they? Still aren’t, really.

And that’s all Harry’s fault.

“Are you excited to see Lauren again? I’m sure you’ve missed her. I know she’s been beside herself with missing you.”

Jerked from his thoughts ― rather rudely, too ― Harry lifts his gaze off Niall’s bunching groin and meets Niall’s eyes, and even spaced apart the blue is too bright, too dazzling to not be seen, and Harry’s awe-struck at the utter beauty of the man before him.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, doesn’t think he’ll ever have the time to even attempt to get used to it.

“I don’t want to talk about her right now,” Harry replies, and there’s a quiet question in his statement that both hear but neither bring attention to because the restroom is their place, is their one room where they can get away for a few moments and not have to be quizzed, not have to be interrogated afterward. All he has to do is say that his food from earlier caught up with him, and Niall stayed back to lend him some company so he wasn’t in pain alone; that’s believable. Isn’t it? “Can we please not talk about her?”

Her. _Her_ ― because Harry can’t say her name, because Harry can’t think her name.

Not when he’s half-hard from memories of Niall, not when he’s wanting nothing more than to touch and kiss and hug Niall, not when he’d rather be with Niall than her.

And Harry does want to be with Niall more than her, you know, but he can’t break off the engagement ― now that her family knows, now that his family knows, he won’t just be letting her down. He’ll be letting all of them down, too, and he can’t handle that much hate, that much animosity.

He’ll be letting Niall down.

“Okay.” Niall sighs, swings his legs, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, and Harry wants to tell him to stop, wants to tell him to quit it, but Niall isn’t Harry’s and Harry isn’t Niall, and neither of them have any right to order the other around, and ― and even if they were together, possession is fake and they’re each their own person. “Okay, we won’t talk about her. We’ll talk about ― we’ll talk about which church you’re going to get married in or if you’re getting married in a church at all. I know Lauren’s always wanted to have an outside wedding in the back pasture of our grandparent’s place.”

“Niall, please.”

But Niall doesn’t stop. Harry’s begging and hurting and bleeding, and the scars on his heart, in his voice are being reopened, but Niall _does not stop._

“We’ll talk about where you and her are going for your honeymoon ― probably somewhere coastal, tropical, you know, with lots of water, where you can fuck on the beach and not have to worry about being seen ‘cause nobody can afford to spend a single hour on the damn island besides you two. We’ll talk about how perfect her wedding gown is going to match your damn tux; we’ll talk about how you and she are going to make the prettiest, loveliest couple in all of Ireland ‘cause you’re both so beautiful it _hurts_.”

Niall’s insulting him and complimenting him all at once. Wow.

“Niall ―”

“We’ll talk about how you and I and Gracie and Lauren are going shopping for fucking gowns and tuxes tomorrow after you both get off work. We’ll talk about how you’re going to walk down an aisle to marry my cousin knowing you’d rather fuck me over her; we’ll talk about how you know I can fuck you better than her ― we’ll talk about how you’re going to ask me to be the best man for a wedding I don’t want to happen. We’ll talk about how you’re ripping me in two because you won’t let her go so I can have you for myself.”

_No, no, no._

But ― but it’s all true, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

All of it.

“Niall, why are you doing this?” Harry asks, pleads, and he isn’t going to cry, no, isn’t going to allow the water that’s gathering in his eyes to fall; Lauren’s outside, as is Grace, and it’s not hard to see when Harry’s been sobbing, and he doesn’t want to explain why there are streaks of tears on his cheeks. Shitting isn’t that strenuous, really. “Why are you being so mean to me?”

_Why are you telling me everything I already know?_

“I’m not being mean,” Niall replies, scoffs and shakes his head, and his words are a stark contrast to the way he’s swinging his feet like a fucking child. “I’m not being mean at all. I’m telling you the bloody truth.”

“You said it wasn’t bad! You said it wasn’t going to hurt! You said ― you _lied_ to me!”

“I said it depended on how you were going to take it.” Niall shuts his eyes, breathes in a sharp inhale that rattles Harry’s dwindling self-esteem to a sticky mess of nothing, nothing, nothing; he’s losing his mind, losing himself, and even though he doesn’t deserve the help, he isn’t healthy for those around him, so he needs to be aided. _Now_. Before he brings down those he loves. “Don’t put words in my mouth that you know I’ve not said. That’s bullshit, and I’ll call you out on it now. I’m not afraid anymore.”

Harry’s knees buckle then, and he falls to the floor, and it’s cold tile that leaks through the butt of his jeans, but he doesn’t care ― doesn’t care that it’s cold, doesn’t care that it’s dirty, doesn’t care that it’s against hundreds of sanitary rules. He can’t stand anymore, and he needs a bit of solid support so he doesn’t completely collapse within himself; he isn’t going to be getting any from the people he craves, and if the floor is his only option, so be it.

He brings his knees up, wraps his arms around his legs and puts his chin on the little gap there; his eyes are cast down and he can’t see Niall, but he knows Niall’s looking at him, and he wonders what Niall’s seeing: a broken man on the verge of crumpling, a scared man adrift in a sea of tears that he’s gathered from all the people he’s made cry lately, an angry man with red eyes and shaking hands and knocking knees, a selfish man who wants everything that he can’t have, a lying man who doesn’t know how to deal with all he’s being bombarded with.

What is Niall seeing?

What does Niall think of Harry?

And ― and is there anything Harry can do to make it better?

“Harry?” Niall’s voice is soft and delicate, and Harry really, really wants to lash out and tell Niall to leave, to fuck off, to go to hell, but he can’t. He can’t, and he isn’t even going to attempt to understand why he’s so easily laying down now because he knows he won’t be able to put it into words. This isn’t the first time he’s not been able to talk coherently in front of Niall, and he knows it isn’t going to be the last, either. “Harry, are you ― what’s wrong?”

Wow.

What’s wrong? _What’s wrong?_ Niall knows what’s wrong ― Niall’s the cause of what’s eating Harry alive. Of course Niall knows what’s wrong, and playing dumb, feigning ignorance doesn’t look good on Niall at all.

“What can I do to make it better?” Harry asks, and it’s probably futile to ask because the fruits he’s going to be given are rotten from all the rebellious people who didn’t listen, who chose to take and take and take from the hand that fed them instead of giving, giving, giving. “Is there anything I can do to make it better for you?”

 _For you_ ― for you because Harry doesn’t care about himself. Niall’s hurting, and Harry is, too, and Lauren will be should this ever get out, _when_ this ever gets out, and Harry knows now that none of them are going to get off without being in pain for a little while, but he can stand the ache as long as his two sunshines are bright, bright, bright.

Because they’re his light at the end of a dark tunnel, his calm eye of a torrential hurricane. It isn’t healthy, isn’t smart to make people your home; would ‘sorry’ make a difference, at the end of the day? It’s just a word ― it’s just an empty word against a hundred, against a thousand actions.

No.

No, it wouldn’t have. And it won’t now, either.

“You can break it off, Harry,” Niall says, and his voice is cracked, and he’s hurting so much, and Harry just wants to take all of his pain away because it isn’t fair that he’s hurting when he doesn’t deserve to be in pain. “You can break off the engagement and stop the wedding, and you can have me. You can have me, and I can have you. You don’t have to marry her, Harry.”

“You said I couldn’t.” Harry shakes his head, wets his lips and raises his eyes, and the expression on Niall’s face cuts deeper than words ever could. “You said on New Year’s Day that I couldn’t have you even if I said no to Lauren, Niall. You can’t ― this going back and forth with me, saying you want and then telling me you don’t, isn’t fair.”

Harry’s doing the same thing, though, isn’t he?

“You said you were going to try, Niall. You promised me you would, and you aren’t. I know you aren’t. I ― I want you, but I can’t keep up with you changing your mind every damn second.”  

“I ― I know.” Niall looks down, twiddles his thumbs in his lap, but at least he isn’t swinging his legs back and forth still, at least he isn’t giving Harry the false impression that everything is okay when it clearly isn’t. “And I meant it. When I said that you wouldn’t have me, I meant every single world, Harry.”

“What happened?” Harry asks, gulps hard, and there isn’t a lump in his throat because a rock has formed in his heart, and chest pains are a dull ache that stays and stays and stays, really, when a sore infection can be treated effectively. “Why’d you change your mind?”

Niall’s lips twitch into a lopsided, wicked grin, and Harry shivers, and it isn’t because the floor is bitterly cold, either. “The same reason you keep coming back to me when you’re with Lauren,” he answers. “I can’t tell you no. I don’t want to tell you no. Now that I know what it’s like to be with you in the way I’ve wanted since we were eighteen, I don’t want to tell you no. I don’t want to let you go.”

Harry sighs, drops his eyes to the floor again; the tile is red and black checkered, and it’s a nice design that fits well with the color-coded decorations in the restroom, really. Harry’s always loved fitting different things together in a way that seems totally unorthodox, and interior design was his second choice of a career path if he wasn’t able to secure and hold a job in the music industry.

“I don’t want you to let me go, either,” he replies, whispery-soft and so gently broken, so finely cracked that it’s hard to see the fractures of tissue.

“Tell Lauren you can’t marry her,” Niall says for the second time, and it’s just as loud, just as resounding, just a viciously stimulating as it was at first. “Tell Lauren you _won’t_ marry her because you want to be with me instead.”

“That’ll break her heart.”

“But it’s okay for your heart to break and mine, too? She can’t feel heartbreak ― she can’t feel a little bit of the pain that I’ve felt for four fucking years?”

Harry shuts his eyes, blocks out the ferocious expression he knows is colored across Niall’s pretty, pretty face. “Are you jealous of her?” Harry asks, and it’s a stupid question, he knows, but Niall cut him deep, and Harry’s going to twist the knife his own way. “Are you jealous that she has me when you can’t?”

“I can have you. I do have you.”

“You didn’t answer my question, baby,” he says, smirks to himself; he’s not at all sure where or why or how that name suddenly came up, but he likes it, knows it does something deep inside Niall’s tummy, and using it against him in this way is sickening, is rude and ugly, but Harry doesn’t care right now. Niall’s wounded him to the point where he can’t feel anything else. “Are you?”

There’s a noise of feet hitting the floor, and Harry opens his eyes, raises his head to see that Niall is stalking toward him; Harry’s not scared because he doesn’t care now, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away when Niall drops to his knees.

“I should’ve said yes,” Niall replies, and he’s kneeling then, in front of Harry, sitting on his knees and reclining back on his legs, and they’re close, so close, and Harry knows he wants to pull Niall against him, into him, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because Niall smells like spice and peppermint, and he has Lauren’s scent lingering on his clothes, and it isn’t fair for either of them. “I should’ve said yes to that stupid dance you asked me for at the family reunion.”

“You should’ve.”

If he had said yes, though, would it have changed anything? Or was this mess bound to happen, woven together with the sticky strings of fate by a larger force that wants to see them suffer for taking a bite of the forbidden fruit?

“You were mine first, Harry. You were mine.”

“I wasn’t.” Harry tips his head back, blinks, and lets Niall look into his eyes, into his soul; he’s telling nothing but the truth, and he doesn’t have a thing to hide now that he’s been stripped of it all. “I wasn’t ever yours. I was Lauren’s.”

“But you’re mine now.” Niall’s brows knit and he reaches out, and Harry doesn’t stop him as he puts his hand on Harry’s head, as he curls his fingers in Harry’s hair like vines crawling up the fruit tree, like slithering snakes and sneaky tongues. “You’re mine now, aren’t you?”

“Always.”  

“Tell Lauren no,” Niall says again, for a third time, and it echoes in Harry’s mind, over and over and over, like a mantra, like the repeating motifs he learned about in English: _tell Lauren no, tell Lauren no, tell Lauren no_. “Tell her no, and you and I can be together like the both of us want. Why is that so hard for you to do? Why can’t you put the two of us first?”

Harry blinks, and Niall is a gentle cloud of comfort in front of him. “It won’t just be her I’m letting down,” he replies, wets his lips and sniffles, wipes at his nose as he leans into Niall’s soft, delicate touch. “Both of our families know now, and they’ll be disappointed, too, and ― and I can’t handle all of that anger and sadness on my shoulders. I can’t do it by myself ‘cause everybody is going to blame me for breaking her heart, and I know ― I know they’re going to be mean when they find out it was because of what I feel for you.”

Harry’s admitting a lot right now, allowing Niall to glimpse into his soul, into his heart, and it’s odd being naked, strange being bare and raw and intimate, but it feels good, feels so _right_ , to talk to Niall in this way, and he can’t take it back, can’t regret the words that are falling from his lips.

He can trust Niall. He can trust Niall with anything.

He’s always known that.

“You won’t be alone,” Niall responds, and Harry’s heart soars high, dips low, and he feels a passion, a blue-tipped fire in his soul at Niall’s words. “You’ll have me, Harry. If you call off this wedding, you will have me.”

“Will I?”

Niall’s brows knit and his hand stills in Harry’s hair; his fingers curl around the thickness and he jerks, tugs at Harry’s tendrils till a whine of discomfort is leaving his throat, till they’re face-to-face and heart-to-heart and soul-to-soul.

“If you leave her, you will.” Niall nods, blinks, and his eyes are the color of the sky right before the sunset, and Harry’s always preferred the beginning of the day, really, but there’s something about Niall that makes him want to watch the sun go back behind the mountains every day. “Either love me or leave me, Harry. Either love me or let me leave you.”

Harry shuts his eyes; his lashes are damp with tears, heavy with water that won’t fall, and he can’t look at Niall, can’t fester and bounce and shiver beneath Niall’s gaze any longer.

“I’ll love you,” Harry answers, and he will ― he’ll love Niall till the end of time if he’s allowed to. “I’ll love you, baby. I don’t want you to let me go, and I can’t think about the idea of letting you leave me, and I will love you.”

“You can’t tell me that when Lauren is outside waiting for you.”

“But she doesn’t matter,” Harry replies, and it’s a whimper of an objection, a pained grimace that thickens in the air around them till it’s strangling Harry’s breath, till it’s quickening Niall’s intake of air. “I love her, but I’m not in love with her, and all I want is you. _You_ are all I want ― so much it’s hurting.” He licks his lips again; they’re dry and cracked and champed, and Niall’s eyes haven’t left them ― and when Niall kisses him, it makes him want to climb high into the sky and light up the world better than all of the stars combined. “I want to kiss you so long that you’ll never be able to get the taste of me out of your mouth ― I want to touch you till you aren’t able to scrub my fingertips off of your skin.” 

Niall’s hand moves down, cups Harry’s cheek, and Harry half-closes his eyes, allows Niall to tip his head back till their gazes are meeting, till crackling ocean water is amalgamating with ruddy forest leaves and it’s a bombarding rush, a thunderous crash of total completion.

“If you tell her no, Harry, you can have me. I promise you can have me, and I’ll never want to get your taste out of my mouth or wash your touch from my skin. If you tell her no, I’ll be yours.”

And ― and Harry wants to. Harry wants to tell Lauren no so, so bad, but he can’t. He can’t because he doesn’t want to hurt Lauren, can’t because he doesn’t want to let his mum down, can’t because he doesn’t want to face the judgement from his family, can’t because he doesn’t want to be blamed for destroying everything by his friends, can’t because he doesn’t want to upset the tentative balance of familial life that’s been found within Lauren’s immediate kin.

“I can’t, Niall.”

“Do you want to?” Niall asks, slants his head to the side, and his teeth are white, are normally-colored and a bit crooked and kind of big, and Harry loves it so much because Niall isn’t perfect. “Do you want to tell her no?”

Harry nods. “I want to tell her no almost as much as I want you, Niall.”

Niall sighs, shakes his head and leans down; his lips are warm and wet against Harry’s cold forehead, and he shudders, convulses and caves in on himself as Niall moves his mouth over Harry’s nose, over Harry’s cheeks, over Harry’s puckered patience.

It’s a soft kiss, a tender touch that’s full of all the words they’ve left unspoken, and Harry reaches for Niall as if he’ll drown, as if he’ll blow away in the gale force of the scratching storm in his heart, as if he’ll wilt and wane and wander far, far away from the place he belongs most. His hands grab at Niall’s jacket and his fingers tangle and twist and twine in the fabric, and Niall’s palms are warm against Harry’s cheeks, and this is what he’s needed for so, so long.

Niall wants him, and Harry’s wanted ― Harry is wanted and Niall is home and Harry is a mess and Niall is unknowingly going to make it all better.

Pulling away, Harry lets out a breath of reluctance, tugging Niall close till they’re both on the floor, cuddled up and curled around one another as if an embrace is what’s going to save them from total damnation. It’s warm, and Niall smells like spice and peppermint and mangos, and Harry’s falling in love with him.

Oh. Harry’s falling in love with Niall, isn’t he?

Fuck, it feels good.

“I’m not going to make plans to cheat with you, Harry,” Niall announces, and it’s a soft sentence in the air around them that feels like flowers touching on Harry’s skin, that smells like a meadow full of dew and grass, that sounds like silence in the crackling night beside a flickering fire. “And I don’t want to help you cheat, either, but ― but I want you so bad, and I don’t want to let you go. I’m going to hold on to you as long as I can.”

“You can let me go, though, can’t you?” Harry asks; Niall stays silent. “You don’t need me to make you happy, do you? You don’t need me at all.”

Niall gives Harry a lopsided, crooked grin, and it hits Harry deep, and the darkness in his stomach is a blurriness around his eyes, is a fuzziness bordering his mind. “I don’t need you to be happy, no,” he answers, and it’s a soft tone he’s using, mind you, but it doesn’t matter because Harry feels like he’s not going to ever get better even though he knows ― he knows Niall is going to be the one to help set him straight. “I don’t need you, but I want you. I do. I do want you.”

“I want you, too.”

“You need me to be happy, though, don’t you?”

Harry nods, swallows the spit that’s accumulated in his mouth, and it’s a thick load that takes its sweet time in sliding down his throat; his fingers move up to touch at Niall’s neck, and it’s hot, dry skin that tethers his body to the ground. “I do.”

And ― and it’s funny and ironic, you know, because he’s going to be saying those words in less than a month to somebody he doesn’t want to in front of dozens of people he can’t find it in himself to upset, to let down.

“That’s not good, Harry. That’s not good at all.”

Harry blinks, wrapping his hand around Niall’s throat in a gentle, tender way, digging his nails into the skin till Niall’s eyes are widening and he’s licking at his lips so they’re sparkling in the fluorescent lighting above. “I know it isn’t, but I’m not a very good person,” he replies. “I can’t help what I’ve done now that it’s in the past, and I’m not going to apologize for the way I’ve led my life, either. I’m not going to apologize for the way I feel for you.”

Niall makes a noise, lays his head against Harry’s shoulder and puts his mouth to Harry’s neck. “It’s hard loving a man I have to share,” he says, and ― and Harry’s broken. He’s completely snapped in two, cracked down the middle, jagged and edged hard, sharp and indefinite.

That’s it. He’s nothing now.

“Niall?”

“Let’s get back to the girls, H,” Niall says, whispers against Harry’s neck, and Harry can feel his lips against the skin; he’s overheating and he’s cold, and he’s broken and nothing, and that’s it. That’s just ― it’s just it. “They’re probably wondering what’s taking us so long.”

 

 


	34. thirty-four

Lauren and Grace are sat on the same side of the booth when Niall and Harry return from their intense, intimate encounter, discussing some sort of exciting topic with bright eyes and smiling faces ― Niall thinks it’s about an upcoming concert at the O2, though he can’t be sure; his ears are still buzzing from all of the words he and Harry shared in the restroom, and it’s sort of all he can think about at the moment, really ― as Niall slides in on the opposite, Harry following.

Their shoulders brush and their thighs meet and their fingers graze each other’s, and Niall doesn’t even think about it as his hand cups Harry’s kneecap, as he caresses Harry’s thigh with his thumb through his jeans.

It feels so right, anyway, so it can’t be wrong.

Harry needs it. Harry needs all the comfort he can get. He’s losing his mind, it seems, torn between doing what he thinks is right and what he knows he wants, and he doesn’t have anybody to talk to that’s _here_ , that’s right beside him other than Niall, and Niall probably isn’t the best option, really.

He’s good at one thing, though, and that’s comforting Harry. After all, Harry is still his best friend above all the nonsense that’s happened, and turning his back on Harry in his time of need is kind of like trying to understand just why love is as chaotic, as destructive and beautiful as it is.

It’s nice. To be needed, to be appreciated; Niall doesn’t want to take advantage of Harry’s vulnerability, of Harry’s complete lack of strength and solidity, but it’s really, really hard to not have a big heart at the knowledge of Harry’s dependency on him.

Wow. The tables have turned, haven’t they?

And ― and seeing Harry like this, so shaken and hurt and open to harm, to punishment and humiliation, physically and mentally and emotionally, shouldn’t awaken something fierce, something wild inside of Niall.

But it does, and he can’t help the way he feels for Harry, really. It’s like capsized ships and dangerous lightning and jagged nails on a chalkboard and off-key tunes and driving fast, fast, fast with your eyes closed down a road in the middle of the night with no headlights.

It’s wild. It’s crazy and it’s stupid and it’s all around risky, but Niall really, really likes it because he really, really loves Harry.

Besides, love is supposed to be chaotic and anarchic and full of total bedlam, right? The stronger it is, the crazier it is. Sounds about right. Gemma told him that once, when he was at Harry’s place for Easter, and he’ll not ever forget how nice, how accepting and supportive she was of him, how she still is of him.

Gemma is a one of a kind queen. Gemma is Harry’s Gracie.

Harry’s a bit subdued, kind of slow and furrowed as he walks now, as he moves his hands and lays his arms on the table, folding his fingers together as he offers a tired smile in response to Lauren’s giddy grin. His brows are knotted and his hair is a mess, tied back in a bun with little bitty curls at his cheeks that Niall knows are just as soft as they look, as they seem; his hands are shaking and his lips are dry and his eyes are heavy-lidded and his nose is tinted with a deep pink and his cheeks are pale, and Niall knows it’s because of everything they yelled, everything they whispered, everything they did to and with one another in the restroom.

He isn’t sorry, though ― for what he said, that is. Or what he did, either. Everything he said ― it was mean and rude and disrespectful and vulgar and disgusting, but Niall has just now discovered his fierce, voracious, livid attitude, and he isn’t sorry for yelling, isn’t sorry for slamming everything down and throwing it all in Harry’s face, over and over and over till he’s forced to see it for what it is, till it’s all like a room of mirrors that has no escape to be found, till you can’t help but see and see and _see_.

He isn’t sorry at all. What he said, the points he brought up are _real,_ are how he feels and what he thinks about when nobody’s looking: he wants to know if Harry and Lauren are going to be wed in a church or in the back field of their grandfather’s home, wants to know if they are going to a tropical island paradise in the middle of nowhere with sunny beaches and warm blue waters and exotic foods and fancy night pubs or a well-known city full of lights and love and snow and slow touches between the sheets of a five-star hotel that probably smells like vanilla and feels like heaven on earth, wants to know if her beautiful gown is going to match his breathtaking tux as she walks down the aisle toward him, wants to know if he would really rather fuck Niall over her, wants to know what he’s going to do about the fact that he’s ripping Niall to shreds, to pieces.

No, he isn’t sorry. How could he be ― _why_ should he be? Harry’s going back and forth between Niall and Lauren just as much as Niall is, if not more; Niall knows what he wants now, though, and that’s Harry, and Harry wants him, too, and, in Niall’s eyes, it isn’t hard, isn’t difficult to see what to do, what needs to be done to ensure everybody’s health and relative happiness.

Harry needs to break it off with Lauren.

Not just because Niall wants him to, not just because Harry wants to ― Harry needs to break it off with Lauren out of respect, out of appreciation, out of support and affection. He’s already cheated on her, more than once, and he’s going to do so again, that’s for sure ― Niall can’t tell Harry no, doesn’t want to tell Harry no now that he knows what it’s like to have the one thing he’s always wanted ― and he doesn’t love her the way she loves him, either.

Harry needs to break it off with Lauren for _her_ , for _him,_ for their collective and individual wellbeing and health and mental safety. Not for Niall.

But that’s a lot harder said than done, it seems. Harry’s losing himself because he’s trying to make everybody happy, and in doing so he’s handing over his own fulfillment, and ― and it’s hard.

Niall gets it. It’s _hard_.

But Harry needs to think about himself for once, needs to be selfish for once. He matters, too ― he matters so, so much, and his happiness is just as important as Niall’s, as Lauren’s, as anybody else’s. Being in a loveless relationship, an unrequited marriage is one of the worst things Harry could ever do, and it’ll hurt Lauren to tell her no, of course, but it’ll hurt Harry a million times more.

Niall just wishes Harry was able to see things from other people’s point of views so he can get the whole picture of everything that’s at stake. But that’s easier said than done, too, isn’t it?  

He’s kicked under the table then, and he looks up from Harry’s knee, up from his fingers as he draws circles on Harry’s pants, sees that Grace is looking at him ― _really_ looking at him, and her eyes are narrowed and her brows are wrinkled and she’s silently asking, quietly demanding Niall tell her exactly what’s going on, exactly what happened in the restroom between him and Harry.

It’s not like he’s going to be able to hide it from her, anyway.

But he just shakes his head, faint and swift and covert, and shrugs his shoulders, giving her a forced, crooked grin that he hopes is passably believed. He knows she worries about him ― more than she should, in his opinion; more than enough to make up for the days and days and days he was left behind by the one person he thought would never forget him ― and he doesn’t want her apprehension of his unsteady relationship with Harry to suddenly spike, to abruptly mount and spill over, destroying everything in its lava-like path.

After all, she knows what went on in that restroom ― she knows, and there’s no point in asking an answer for a question she is already aware of, really, and she isn’t going to tell Lauren about it, either.

Grace is just as much of a horrible friend as Niall is a bad cousin, as Harry is a treacherous fiancé because she _knows_ everything, and she isn’t going to say anything.

Yeah, Niall and Harry are heinous, but Grace is, too ― Grace is, and Louis and Liam and Zayn are, too, if they’re all in the know. Niall has a feeling Louis is keeping most of what’s happening away from Kamryn; she’s thirty-three weeks along now, round and swollen and ready to pop, he thinks, and though the pregnancy has been uncomplicated, though she is as healthy as can be, Louis doesn’t want to add more stress on her shoulders, doesn’t want to add more heaviness on her heart.

She worries about Niall in the same way Grace does, and it isn’t very sound for her to not only concern herself with the baby but Niall’s troubles, as well.

Louis is going to make the best daddy; he adores his little brothers and sisters, always fights with Harry on who is going to hold a child first ― Harry usually wins because he’s a goofy lad who can’t stop smiling, with grabby hands and dimpled cheeks and sparkling eyes; he’s quicker, too, by a little bit, and he’s definitely going to lose his a bit of his heart to Louis’s supposed daughter when the precious baby is born ― and Niall knows Louis will do whatever it takes to make his little one happy, happy, happy.

Louis is a good guy. Louis is a great guy. And he’s going to raise his child to love and accept and respect and appreciate the world as a whole and as individual pieces, too. Louis is going to make the best daddy ever because he is the best guy ever, second only behind the man that holds Niall’s heart in the palm of his shaking, trembling hand.

“What took you boys so long?” Lauren asks, turns her attention to both Harry and Niall; her brows are raised and she’s blinking fast, and Niall doesn’t know what he would do should she ever find out about what’s going on behind her back. “You were in there for quite a while. I thought maybe you’d fallen in.”

Harry swallows, wets his lips and clears his throat. “We ―”

“Harry got stuck in one of the stalls,” Niall says, interrupts Harry’s excuse ― it was probably weak, probably unbelievable, anyway, and Niall’s used to coming to Harry’s rescue by now. Harry is an abstract thinker, and it often takes him ten minutes to get a point across; he is quick with his mind but not so much with his wit, and put under pressure his brain kind of frazzles. Niall knows this. “And it isn’t very hygienic to crawl out under the stall, so I went to get the manager and ― and yeah. Harry got stuck.”

Harry nods, over and over and over, and it’s a bit too enthusiastic, too eager, but Lauren seems to not pay any mind as she shakes her head and rolls her eyes, giving both Niall and Harry a smile that could put the stars to shame.

“You two are a mess,” she says, and she’s laughing ― she’s laughing, and not five minutes ago Niall and Harry were on a restroom floor, nearly in tears because of her. Life isn’t fair, and sometimes Niall just wants to get in her face and yell ― and yell and yell and yell till she understands that Harry is _his_ , till she understands that Harry will always be _his_. But he doesn’t; it wouldn’t do any good, really, and he can’t break her heart, can’t put a frown on her face when she’s the sister he’s always wanted, the sister he’s always needed. He loves her so much, and hurting her would be like trying to count every single blade of grass in the world ― impossible.  

Yeah. Yeah, maybe he can kind of understand the reason behind Harry’s reluctance to end the engagement, to call off the wedding: Lauren is a strong, independent young woman who can get by on her own without the help of anyone, and she’s an angel. She’s nice and sweet and caring and kind and wonderful and beautiful, and she’s stole a little bit of Harry’s heart that he’ll never be able to get back, that he’ll never want back.

Niall understands it, just a little bit, but he can’t shake the nasty taste in his mouth, can’t scrub off the itchy feel on his skin ― Harry may want Niall, but most of his heart belongs to Lauren, and it probably always will, and that’s just as heartbreaking as the situation they’re in, really.

Does it really matter, though, in the end, who has what part of Harry’s heart? He’s going to choose Lauren, anyway. That’s been proven time and time again, and ― and what does it say about Niall to keep holding on?

He’s openly pursuing his cousin’s fiancé, consciously participating in one of the most foulest of plays ever ― what does it say about a man when he isn’t saying no to somebody who’s already taken, to somebody he _knows_ is already taken?

What does it say?

“And I still love you two loads,” Lauren adds, and Niall turns red and Harry tenses, and they need to tell her. They need to. “I think it’ll be really, really hard to stop.”

But neither one of them are strong enough to say all the words that she needs to hear, really; they’re too afraid, too frightened to get hurt, and in that fear they’re only hurting themselves, only hurting those around them.

It’s an endless cycle of hurt, hurt, hurt, and Niall isn’t sure when it’s going to end, isn’t sure if it’s ever going to end.

Because, even if Harry marries Lauren, will Niall be able to say no then?

“And we love you, too,” Harry says, coughs, turns his head to the side and hides his mouth against his shoulder as he stutters out a few hiccupped hacks.

Niall frowns, takes his hand off of Harry’s knee and brings it up, rubs at Harry’s back till his fit of coughing subsides, till it’s just a load of jolting shoulders and wet eyes; Niall wonders if he’s getting sick, wonders if all of the mental exhaustion is finally taking a physical toll on him.

It’s possible. Niall was so disgusted by Harry and Lauren’s behavior that he heaved and retched and vomited ― of course it’s possible for Harry to be getting physically sick from it all.

“What’s good here?” Grace asks, and Niall feels a wave of relief, of warm alleviation wash over him like a hot shower at the end of a long, cold, trying day as she takes the attention off of him and Harry. “I’ve been hungry for this place since Niall invited me along. I don’t know if I can be patient much longer.”

God, Gracie is a lifesaver. Niall owes her so, so much; she does entirely too many things for him, and all he wants to do is give back to her, but he isn’t really sure how.

He will, though. He’ll give back to her when he figures out how.

“The manicotti is good,” Harry replies, slow and light; his voice is thick and his words are slurred with a heaviness that coughing must’ve left behind, but at least he’s _trying_. And that makes Niall really, really proud. “And ― I really like the baked ravioli. The spicy alfredo is nice, too, but it’s better with shrimp than chicken, and you can never go wrong with fettucine. I quite like the spaghetti and lasagna, too.”

Grace gives Harry a look, and one of Harry’s hands drops to Niall’s thigh and Niall grapples to interlace their fingers together, holding tight; Niall’s palm is clammy and Harry’s grip is trembling, and they’re not touching because they want to. They’re touching because they have to, at this point ― mentally, it’s impossible to connect in the way they need, and physical touching, tangible intimacy is all they’ve got.

Niall’s going to take it and run with it.  

“You’re just a helpful little lad, aren’t you?” Grace muses, narrows her eyes. She purses her lips, and Harry’s shaking and Niall is sweating and Niall knows Grace won’t ever out him for the things he’s done to Lauren behind her back, but she seems to quite like poking fun and blistering Harry’s low self-esteem whenever she gets the chance, and Niall can’t do anything to stop her unless he wants to draw attention to the reason why Harry is being degraded in the first place. “Must be kissing ass for something you’re about to do.”

Harry gulps, thins his lips, and Niall gives Grace a look, which she responds to with a wicked smirk that makes him roll his eyes and bite back his own smile. Though it’s a shame their mirth is the fruit of Harry’s total humiliation, it’s quite nice to see how wildly everything has flipped in such little time.

And things have changed, you know. A lot of things have changed ― so many that Niall can’t count then, so many that Niall refuses to attempt to count them. He’s not as dependent as he once was, not as shy or scared or guilty as he once was. He’s growing ― he’s changing and realizing a lot of things, and he’s growing into a skeleton of the person he now knows he wants to be.

Everything is a mess, but in that mess, in that whole turmoil ― in the thicket of the green woods, in the rush of the blue water, in the bite of the whipping wind, in the grittiness of the flying sand, in the darkness of the night, in the blinding light of the day, Niall has found himself.

And he likes what he’s seeing so far.

-

Niall’s in a dressing room, surrounded by light pink and creamy white and mirrors and fluffy dress shirts and too-long blazers and too-short slacks and wrinkled ties.

It’s the next day, after a very awkward and semi-tense engagement at the damned restaurant where everything was forced and tight and nasty, and Niall is in a dressing room struggling to tug on his jeans after trying on the eighth ― or was it the ninth; Niall’s been at it for a few hours, and he’s lost count by now, but it’s to be expected ― tux amidst a mess of no’s, nope’s, and fuck off’s.

Lauren is terrible at picking out tuxes. Yuck.

And Harry’s too busy trying to help Grace find her size to be much of an aid, too. It’s nice to see that the two of them are civil enough with one another to work together for a bit, though; Niall reckons that’s at least one good thing to come out of today.  

Lauren is relentless. She has dragged Niall, Harry, and Grace to a renowned, well-known bridal shop in the middle of London, and the gowns are of a wide variety and size and style. Some are big and some are small and some are long and some are short; some are white and some are cream and some are yellow and some are peach and some are blush and some are pansy pink; some are frilly and some are slim-fitting and some have sleeves and some are strapless and some have lace and some are backless.

And they’re all beautiful, you know. Every single dress Lauren has tried on has been absolutely _stunning_ ; she’s an angel, a goddess in human form with flaws and imperfections, and she can make anything look good, make anything look like it was made for her. She looked beautiful in every single one.

All eighteen of them.

There’s a loud noise, and Niall turns, trips in his jeans and falls against the wall, crooked and sideways and entirely disoriented with a smarting pain in his shoulder from the impact; the door of his assigned dressing room jiggles and opens, revealing a red-faced, wide-eyed Harry, and ― and Niall locked the door.

Niall locked the damn door, didn’t he?

Fuck.

“Harry?”

Harry shuts the door, turns the lock; the light above shines metallically on a bit of metal, and Niall sighs as he realize that Harry has the key to the room. How lovely ― he has no privacy wherever it is that he may go.

Once everything has relatively calmed down, Harry leans back against the door; his eyes find Niall’s, but they don’t stay there for long as his gaze trails all over Niall’s body. His jeans are at his knees and his boxers are hanging low on his hips and his shirt is tossed somewhere in the mess on the floor and his black leather jacket is hung up on the brass rack and his hoodie is nowhere to be seen, and Niall really, really hopes Harry doesn’t decide to tempt and tease and taunt Niall right now.

He doesn’t know if he can take it today. Yesterday was a lot to handle, and he’s still spiraling, still buzzing from it all; he’s raw and chapped and sore, and he can’t handle another bout of Harry, Harry, Harry just yet.

“Harry ―”

“Green or blue?”

Niall frowns, straightens and pulls his jeans the rest of the way up, adjusting his boxers and doing up his button in a fruitful attempt to ease Harry’s obvious gawking. “What do you mean?” he asks, furrows his brows and buckles his belt, threading the leather through the loops of his jeans.

Harry’s gaze is back on Niall’s face now, and Niall can see that Harry’s eyes are gray-blue today, pretty and dull and bright and luminescent; Harry needs to wear gray more often. “I mean ― I chose one color and Lauren chose the other, and I like this color,” Harry replies, pulls out a ribbon from his pocket; it’s silky and shiny, colored so light of a pink that it’s nearly white, but it’s a pretty hue against his semi-tanned skin and Niall can only imagine Harry in a suit of that color. He would look just like the prince he is. “And Lauren can’t decide if she wants blue or green, and we really need a bit of help in this.”

Two more ribbons appear then, and they’re made of the same fabric as the first: one is midnight blue, dark and enticing and dangerous and wild, and the other is very dark forest green, similar to an olive-like color, and it reminds Niall of Harry’s eyes, of crepitating creeks and walks through the woods at night.

Green and pink or pink and blue?

This is worse than that fucking dress.

“Green,” Niall says, nods his head and bends over, digging through the mess of blazers to find his shirt that he hopes is buried beneath. “The blue is nice, but the green would look better with that color of pink.”

Harry makes a noise of agreement, shoves the ribbons back in his pockets as he turns around and grabs the knob. “Niall?”

“Hmm?” Niall hums, tearing through the mess of clothes; he spots his shirt, and it’s white with a large smiling face in the middle, and he’s worn it so many times it’s nearly translucent, but he can’t bring himself to ever get rid of it because it’s comfortable, because it holds memories that he wants to keep forever and ever and ever. If it could talk, it would tell on him. “What is it?”

“Do you want to leave?”

Niall stands, fixes his shirt till it’s turned to the right side and tugs it on over his head, scrubbing his hands through his hair and messing it up even more than it was. “What do you mean?” he asks with furrowed brows; he’s been here for hours, changed clothes nearly a dozen times, and yes, of course he wants to leave. Of course he does.

But he wants to know why first.

Harry turns around, gives Niall a look, and his eyes are wide and his lips are like light pink clouds, like bubblegum cotton candy ― akin to the color of the ribbon he chose ― and they’re wet, and Niall knows they taste much better than they look.

“I mean, haven’t you ever noticed that everything that happens between us is always when we’re in the toilet?”

Niall blinks. “We aren’t in the toilet now,” he points out, kind of smart-allecky, but the smile on his face and the glimmer of dazzling stardust on Harry’s pretty, pretty cheeks lets the both of them know that everything is relatively okay, for the time being.

“Yeah, but ― can I take you out? Like, on a date?”

Niall blinks again; he isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to do. Finding his shoes is probably the right thing, and digging for his hoodie is the next step, no doubt, but he kind of can’t take his eyes off of Harry’s face just yet because it’s a little bit too pretty.

“Right now?” Niall asks, licks his lips and wipes at his nose; it’s wet and cold and rainy outside, and the bridal shop isn’t the warmest place, either, and he doesn’t want to be sick before he starts his job, before the wedding happens. “You want to take me out on a date right now?”

Harry’s weird. Harry is eccentric and abstract and very, very unpredictable, and he never fails to surprise Niall, to astound Niall, to leave Niall in a perpetual bliss of awe that feels like skydiving, that feels like swimming in the deepest part of the ocean.

Niall’s in love with the way Harry makes him feel just as much as he’s in love with simply Harry.

“Well, yeah,” Harry says, gives Niall a lopsided, goofy grin. “I want to take you out on a date right now, if that’s okay with you.”

Niall frowns. “What about Lauren?” he asks ― he asks, and the most precious thing happens, really, and he wants to ask question and demand why and how and when, but he can’t open his mouth to get anything out.

Harry’s face lights up, gleams with a luminosity so bright it can’t be fake. “You want to go with me?” he asks, completely disregards Niall’s question, Niall’s reminder, and Niall just nods, just gives Harry a wet smile, and he’s a mess of mushy emotions and viscid needs, really. “I’ll take care of it. Just ― just get dressed, and I’ll take care of it, and I’ll meet you at the front doors, yeah?”

Niall nods again, and the smile on his face is little, is tiny, but the force behind it is hurting his cheeks and he loves how he can be naked with Harry no matter what. “Okay.”

Harry moves forward then, grabs Niall’s hand and tugs him close; Harry’s lips meet Niall’s cheek, and they’re sticky and wet and soft, and Niall’s heart is an easy thud-thud-thud in his chest. “I’ll take care of it, Ni,” he says, whispers in Niall’s ear, and when he pulls back they’re both blushing, and Harry’s hand is sweaty and Niall’s skin is overridden with a patch of gooseflesh. “I’ll meet you out front when you’re dressed.”

“Okay.” Niall grins ― and grins and grins and grins, and it feels good to know that he and Harry are going to be able to leave, are going to be able to take a bit of time to themselves after a ridiculous bout of frilly dresses and tight tuxes. “Okay, Harry.”

 


	35. thirty-five

“This isn’t a date, you know,” Niall tells Harry as soon as they step out of the bridal shop; the chill, the wind, the wetness of winter is a wall that Harry slams into, a force of solid weather, but it’s Niall’s kind of harsh, kind of unnecessary words that make his breath leave his lungs, that causes his fingers to shake as he fumbles with his keys in his pocket. “I hope you know that, Harry. I know what I said in the restroom yesterday, and I meant everything word ― I’m not going to go back on you now ― but it isn’t right to call his a date when we’re lying to Lauren, really. That’s _wrong_.”

And, the thing is, Harry knows it isn’t a date. He knows it’s wrong to be lying to Lauren, too. He knows this isn’t a date, knows it’s an abomination to lie to the one person he should be obligated to tell the truth to, and he’s also aware of the fact that it was just wishful thinking when he proposed the idea to Niall moments before, with a fluttering heart and bouncing stomach and sticky nerves.

But it worked, didn’t it? He was able to leave, to get himself and Niall away for a little bit, wasn’t he?

The four of them ― Harry, Niall, Lauren, and Grace ― have been at the shop for a while now; it has a wide variety of dresses and gowns, and the designer’s names on the tags are of a wide ranged (some are fashion lines that Harry’s never heard of himself, and he’s always thought himself as quite the trendsetter, in a way) and the tux selection isn’t awful, really, but the boutique on the other side of town has a much larger collection to choose from, and Harry knows both he and Niall, and Louis and Liam and Zayn, too, though they aren’t physically here with them, would much rather have a comfortable, pliant suit than a constrictive, itchy ensemble that will grip their shoulders entirely too tight, that will hug their thighs entirely too loose.

That was how Harry was able to slip away from Lauren, you know ― bargaining with her, promising her that he and Niall will pick out suits for all five of them at the shop on the other side of town gave way to her shaky compliance, and Harry was able to leave with a peck on the cheek and a judgmental look from Grace.

Oh, well. He’s been judged more than once in his life, and Grace definitely won’t be the last person to find something about him to assess, over and over and over again, till it’s a flaw that will not only rip him to shreds but those around him, too.

He isn’t afraid of being judged ― he isn’t going to waste his precious time trying to explain something to somebody about himself that they think he should be ashamed of. He isn’t going to apologize for the way he’s lived his life, for the way he’s chosen to continue to live his life.

He’s faced prejudice before, and though it hurts his heart, though it leaves a nasty sting in the back of his throat, he isn’t scared to deal with it if he has to, isn’t frightened of the ugly words and sad lies and destructive actions ― it’s Niall he’s being judged for, anyway, and, the thing is, Harry adores Niall and he knows he would do anything to protect Niall, knows he would do anything to make him smile a little bit brighter, if he could.

If he has to live his life with a constant injustice laced on his shoulders, painted on his heart, stitched on his soul, so be it. If he has to live his life in ridicule and humiliation and abandonment so Niall doesn’t have to see what it’s like to negatively be the center of attention, so be it.

He’d do anything for Niall. He really, really would.

And he hopes Niall knows that, hopes Niall is aware of how bloody important he is to Harry.

“As long as I can still pay for your meal, that’s okay with me,” Harry replies, gives Niall a crooked grin ― and it’s a _real_ smile, a _real_ show of affection, and though his heart isn’t whole and his mind isn’t full of color, Niall’s name is safe in his mouth whenever he says it. Always. “You can call it whatever you want to, baby, as long as I get to be with you.”

Niall rolls his eyes, scoffs a laugh and opens the door of the car, sliding inside. “We’re going out to eat?” he asks as Harry maneuvers awkwardly in, shuts the door, sticks the keys into the ignition and turns it over. It’s cold in the car, and the air inside smells like icy flower petals, but the warmth between Harry and Niall’s body is a swirling temperature change in the air and Harry remembers the few summers he spent in Ireland with Niall and his overbearing, overwhelming family.

He wouldn’t mind going back, you know. To Ireland with Niall, that is. It’s a beautiful country, and he still hasn’t seen every single little corner, and though he’s going there next month for his wedding ― though they’re all flying over next month for the wedding ― Niall is the only person he wants to go on adventures with.

Harry nods. “Yeah.” He buckles up, turns to meet Niall’s eyes, and Niall’s always been handsome, always been beautiful, always been gorgeous in Harry’s mind ― but he’s so, so pretty with his wide blue eyes, with his dusty pink cheeks, with his red-tipped nose, with his dimpled chin and wrinkled forehead and messy hair and disheveled clothing.

Niall’s _pretty_. He’s full of sparkles and pretty colors and bright rays of light, and he’s so, so pretty.

Niall is the innocent, bubbly little schoolboy with wide eyes and rosy cheeks and pansy pink lips that Harry, the jaded and hard headmaster who has seen a little bit more in life than most people have, wants to take in his arms, wants to promise and adore and swoon over, wants to strip bare, wants to lay down, wants to touch and kiss and lick and suck and bite and nibble and feast till Niall is ravished, till Niall is keening and moaning and reaching to the high heavens for Harry, Harry, _Harry_.

Yeah. Yeah, Harry wants to do so, so many things with Niall because he isn’t afraid, isn’t ashamed, isn’t full of abrasive nervousness to be with Niall in every way that there possibly is ― physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

He’ll give Niall anything. He’ll give all of himself if it means Niall will smile at him, because of him.

“What sounds good?” he asks, wets his lips; he reaches forward, turns the radio volume up a bit. Harry put in his comfort CD on the way to the shop ― he’s had the thing for years; his dad made it for him before the divorce was finalized when he was a young child, and it’s been through hell, really, and if it could talk, it would surely tell on Harry ― and he’s found that Meatloaf is quite comforting when he wants to be. “Anything sounds good to me, and I just want you to be comfortable.”

He just wants Niall to be _happy_.

And ― and maybe he’s going about the entire thing wrong, you know; maybe how he’s trying to gather every little broken piece up again is completely idiotic, but he’s trying. He’s trying, and that’s more than he can say for a lot of other people.

How many people in the world are willing to give up their happiness so somebody else can have it?

Niall shrugs. “Whatever you want is fine with me,” he replies, moves his hand up and grips at the handle above the window on the roof of the vehicle; Gemma told him that Americans in Oklahoma oftentimes refer to the it as the ‘oh shit bar’, and she promised to show him exactly why when she comes back for the wedding next month.

He isn’t sure if he’s distressed or impressed, really. Gemma’s just as wild as Harry is, and when they’re together ― well, their mum tried to keep them away from each other as much as she could when they were younger, if that says anything.

“Don’t be like that, Ni.” Harry shakes his head, puts the car in gear and reverses out of the parking space. “Don’t be that person. Tell me what you want to eat, and we’ll go have a good lunch.”

Niall chuckles, turns his head away and hides his face in his shoulder, and Harry wants to tell him to stop, wants to tell him to never ever ― ever, ever, _ever_ ― hide his pretty, pretty smile. He’s so beautiful, so precious, so soundly breathtaking in a quiet, gentle way ― he’s got nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, and Harry has always loved watching the color of faded pink joy streak across Niall’s face.

“Pizza,” Niall replies, and his admission is muffled by his laughter, and the butterflies in Harry’s tummy are fierce as they flutter and dance with jovial jubilance. “Pizza sounds good right now.”

Harry nods, reaches over the console and puts his hand on Niall’s leg, settling his fingers on the inside of Niall’s thigh, and it’s a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, and ― and Niall leaves it there. His body is tight and his legs are pinched together and his laughter has withered away and he’s breathing hard and his neck is turning the darkest shade of red and he’s refusing to meet Harry’s eyes, and he’s allowing Harry to keep his hand there.

“All right,” Harry says, bites his lip; the tension from Niall’s body lessens magically, magnificently, and his legs fall apart, kind of, and Harry moves his fingers up, a bit closer to the noticeable bulge that’s growing in the crotch of Niall’s jeans, massaging the pad of his thumb firmly on Niall’s fleshy thigh, and Harry can’t really ignore the tightness in his jeans, either. It’s kind of hard to control himself whenever he’s around Niall, and he loves that he doesn’t give a flying fuck about it. “Pizza it is.”

-

“Did you like any of the dresses Lauren tried on?”

Harry chokes on his slice of pizza; it’s a hot, solid piece of cheesy, stringy food stuck in his throat, and he coughs and coughs and coughs, and Niall’s face is cast down and there’s a tiny little smirk on his face, and he’s a little shit, really, because he does this kind of stuff on purpose.

“You can’t just ask me something like that,” Harry replies, hoarse and raspy; the few people that are sat in the cute pizza shop are looking at him with an odd mixture of worry and relief on their faces, and he waves them off with a flick of his wrist. He’s okay, at the moment, and while he appreciates their apparent care, he really doesn’t need it. “I don’t know what to say back to that.”

“Tell me what you think,” Niall says, shrugging as he folds a napkin and dabs at the grease on his pizza. “I mean, I’m not asking to be mean, Harry ― I really want to know if you liked any of the dresses Lauren tried on. I’m genuinely curious as to what’s going through your mind.”

Harry blinks, looks into Niall’s eyes, and they’re blue ― of course they’re blue; eyes don’t change colors just because the person they belong to change ― and open and wide and full of truth, and Harry knows Niall isn’t lying. Niall isn’t lying ― he really wants to know what’s going through Harry’s mind, what’s swimming around in Harry’s head about Lauren’s attempt to find a dress, and… and that kind of makes Harry’s heart ease to a gentle thud-thud-thud in his chest that he can hear in his ears, that he can feel in his knees as they shake and rattle and quiver.

He feels so calm with Niall, so easy and open and casual and soothed. He doesn’t have to pretend with Niall, and that’s a beautiful thing, really ― not everybody can say that they’ve found the one person in the world that makes them feel completely at ease, that makes them feel as if they’re going to be okay, but Harry has.

Harry has, and he really, really wants to hold on to the rock he’s been blessed to discover.

“Lauren looked very beautiful in all of the dresses,” Harry answers, hopes his response is okay, and Niall nods his head in agreement. “I mean, she looks good in everything. There’s nothing I’ve ever seen her in that she didn’t look nice in.”

Nothing at all ― sweatpants and summer dresses and loose jeans and tight slacks and too-long shirts and fluffy shorts. Lauren looks good in everything she wears because ― because Harry’s of a mind that people are beautiful, that people are exceptional gorgeous and breathtaking no matter what they wear, not matter what they look like. They’re just _beautiful_.  

Niall raises a brow, cuts the tip of his pizza with his fork. “But?” he adds, dragging the word out and allowing Harry to fill in the blanks it’s opening.

“None of them are her, ya know?” Harry says, and he sighs, grabs at his cup of water and takes a hearty sip. It’s a cold contrast to the burning that’s left behind in his throat, and while it soothes the sting there, nothing can put out the raging flames of guilt in his chest ― he only feels guilty every once in a while, and he regrets that, too. “They’re either too big or too fluffy or too long or too short, and she did look beautiful in all of them, but she can’t force it. It’ll come. She’ll find the one for her soon enough.”

“And you don’t want to help her?”

Harry laughs, lets a tight grin tug at his lips. “I’m shit at picking out dresses, Ni,” he replies, shrugging. “I’m okay with shoes and pants and shirts and jackets, you know, ‘cause those are universal and usually don’t ever stand alone in an ensemble, but dresses ― if Lauren asked for my help, I’m afraid she’d be walking down the aisle in a potato sack.”

“She’d still look beautiful, though, wouldn’t she?”

Harry wets his lips, slants his head and gives Niall a look; he’s playing at a game, Harry thinks, but he isn’t entirely sure what kind, really, and he’s never been the best at keeping up with the mind frolics.

But he’ll play along. He’ll play along because he doesn’t want to be away from Niall, and it doesn’t matter if he loses, doesn’t matter if he winds up with skinned knees and dirty hands.

“You’ll look beautiful, too. You make everything look good, baby.”

Niall laughs, throws his head back and lets out a loud guffaw that echoes in the little space they’re in; Harry’s heart swells and swells and swells, and it feels good to not have to worry about looking over his shoulder, feels good to not have to tiptoe around each other’s sensitive, vulnerable emotions.

They can be themselves around each other now because they’re getting better. They’re getting better. The wedding keeps on getting closer, and their emotions and thoughts and feelings are a mounting explosion waiting to happen, in a weird sort of sense, and the two of them are healing by themselves, in strictly different ways by different methods at different speeds.

Wow.

“I am not wearing a dress, H,” Niall replies, and the casual use of Harry’s nickname makes shivers of the prettiest, sweetest, softest kind waltz along Harry’s spine. It’s entirely too wonderful to know that Niall can make him feel so, so alive even when he’s still relishing the fact that Niall puts him completely at ease, too. He’s never felt that way before ― with Lauren, it’s a rush, an adrenalized haze of now-now-now, but with Niall it’s a sigh of relief, a gentle arm slung around a waist in the dark of the night between the sheets. Harry prefers the calmness over the rushing tide. “I’m not going to wear a dress to walk down the aisle if I get married. No way.”

If? What does that mean? Doesn’t Niall want to marry eventually?

Harry grins. “You’d look really good in a dress, Ni,” Harry says, teases, and ― and something inside of Harry sparks to life then, and he turns red and he begins to harden all over; the image of Niall in a lacy number with nearly-translucent, bitable lingerie beneath, a bit too little for all of Niall’s endowments, makes Harry want to drag Niall to the closest boutique he can find so he can have Niall put on his own personal runaway show, complete with stockings and heels and tight, tight, tight gowns.

It’ll end in sensual euphoria, of course. Harry wouldn’t be able to handle many of Niall’s twists and twirls, and his hands would grab at any piece of fabric his fingers could wrap around and he’d _rip_ ― and he’d have to pay for it all, too, of course, but that’s not a problem, really ― and he would kiss at Niall’s lips, lick at Niall’s neck, suckle at Niall’s nipples till he was hard, till he was wet, till he was panting and begging for Harry, Harry, Harry.

Harry would tear off the thin pair of panties Niall’s wearing then, and he’d nuzzle around the coarse, dark hair that frames Niall’s groin and he would place butterfly kisses on the tip, lick like a kitten pawing on its mum’s tummy at the vein on the underside of the hard, leaking shaft, savor the bittersweet taste of precum; he would swirl his tongue around the length, lubricating the warm flesh, and hollow his cheeks as he went low, low, low, swallowing around the head and slacking his jaw so Niall could fuck nice and slow into his mouth.

Nice and slow, nice and slow, nice and slow; deep and deep and deep, and tears would be spilling out of Harry’s eyes and his jaw would be cramping and spit would be dribbling from the corners of his mouth and he’d taking it all, everything he could, till Niall finally let loose and came with a howl of restrained pressure, and Harry would eat every single drop of it up.  

Niall probably tastes like the way paradise feels, anyway; Harry has no qualms about taking it all off to give everything he can to Niall, really.

And, the thing is, the restroom in this tiny place doesn’t have a lock and the both of them still have to locate the boutique to find a tux for one another, as well as the other three, who weren’t able to attend the purchasing due to previously-made plans ― Zayn is babysitting for his mum’s neighbor and Louis is taking Kamryn in for a checkup and Liam is constructing business like a pro while his father is still on vacation somewhere in Wales. They don’t have time to be dilly-dallying around with each other yet, but ― but soon.

Hopefully.

And, by the look on Niall’s pink cheeks, Harry thinks something inside of him may have awakened, too, and ― and Harry wants to have all of his firsts with Niall, really, because he’s worth holding the honor at having taken them.

-

“You’ve probably picked the coldest day of the year to go for a walk, you silly boy,” Niall muses, and he’s bundled up tight in his leather jacket and hoodie; his nose is tipped red and his cheeks are pink, and Harry found a royal purple beanie in his vehicle and gave it to Niall to hide his ears from the slamming cold, and he looks adorably cold and so, so cuddly. “Honestly. Horrible, horrible day for a walk.”

Harry just shrugs, turns his head away from Niall’s exasperated face. They just left the boutique after spending two and a half hours there ― mostly because nobody could get in touch with Zayn to find out what size pants he wears ― and Harry’s proud of what he and Niall chose, really. The pants are black, sort of shiny and silk-like, while the shirt is a simple white button-down with a folded collar and tight cuffs and gathered back; the blazer they agreed upon is a weird mix of leather and suede ― two things Harry never thought would go well together ― and shoes they’re all to wear are black boots, of course.

Harry’s glad they’ve found an outfit for all five of them ― he’s glad, but Lauren’s only called him once to check in and see how everything was going, telling him that she’s caught a ride with Grace back to her place and he can pick her up there when he and Niall finish purchasing and ordering, and he doesn’t want to leave Niall’s company just yet.

It feels too good to be over, and Harry’s going to hold on to everything for as long as he’s allowed.

“It’s supposed to warm up sometime soon,” Harry replies, tucks his hands in the pockets of his black overcoat after adjusting the aqua-colored beanie he’s wearing over his wild tendrils.

Niall chuckles, shakes his head, and it’s weird, really, because the park they’re ambling through his mostly desolate, empty and void of people, and his laughter seems to ring in the towering, bare trees around them, echoing like the bass in Harry’s favorite song. “You’re funny,” Niall says, and the toothy grin on his lips makes Harry’s heart hurt.

“What if I buy you some hot chocolate?” Harry proposes, nudges his shoulder with Niall’s, and they share a smile that’s soft and sweet; the wind is ripping through Harry’s jacket and tearing at the hairs on his arms, but none of that matters, really, when Niall’s looking at him as if he’s hung the moon, as if he’s the reason the ocean is as deep and dark and mysterious as it is. “Would that make everything a little bit better?”

“You’ve already bought my lunch. I can’t let you buy me hot chocolate, too.”

“This is a date, Ni, and it’s not over yet. I want to treat you like the king you are, baby.”

Niall sighs, and the timid smile on his lips makes Harry twitch in all the right places, and ―  and is it acceptable to go mad with affection in public?

“You’re such a smartass sometimes, H.”

Harry only shrugs, only offers a quick jab of his tongue in a taunt, in teasing reply. He and Niall ― and many others ― have had this conversation before, about how Harry tends to act childish and immature at times. They’ve all come to accept it, though; Harry likes to draw joy out of every little thing in life he can.

Abruptly, a chilling drop of liquid falls on Harry’s cheek and he reaches up with sweating hands to wide it away, reckoning that it’s probably just a little bit of drizzle from the overcast sky. Winter’s not over yet, and London loves the rain just as much as the snow. But then another falls, and two more, and six more, and nine more ― till it’s a steady downpour of white flakes that tickles his eyelashes and dots the dark red cobblestone path they’re on with purity.

Harry sighs, realizing the temperature is going to be dropping even more soon, and he and Niall are going to have to call this rendezvous over lest they both wish to be holed up in bed for a week with racking chills and skyrocketing fevers.

“Of course it’s snowing. Of course.”

Niall giggles at that moment, pulling his hand out of his pocket and reaching to grab Harry’s, intertwining their fingers. Niall’s palm is warm, is kind of clammy and sticky, and Harry’s cheeks heat from the intimate touch, and the flakes on his face are melting away like his heart, like his soul, like his resolve to keep the promise he made to himself. It’s not the first time Niall’s held his hand, and he hopes it isn’t the last time, either, but every touch he gets from Niall wrecks his system in the most beautiful way, and he doesn’t want to come back from the carnages that’s reaped upon him.

“Don’t be so grumpy, Scrooge,” Niall teases, and how he’s acting as if everything’s okay ― how he’s acting as if their world isn’t a shit-storm of epic proportions waiting to attack is beyond Harry’s cognizant comprehension. Niall is a force to be reckoned with, and he is to never, ever be underestimated. “It’s beautiful. It looks like feathers falling ― like the angels got into a pillow fight.”

The picture Niall has painted in Harry’s head is too fierce, too colorful, too loud and eye-catching to ignore, silently screaming and whispering something exclusive for Harry’s ears only, for Harry’s eyes only. Niall is a work of art who appreciates art, and everything is art; therefore, all should be appreciated, no matter how bad or how good, and in that appreciation, mutual respect will be found, which will lead to peace and freedom.

“You’re kind of weird, Ni.”

Niall nods, and his fingers tighten on Harry’s, and Harry doesn’t want to let go. “I know,” he agrees. “And you don’t really fit in, either, Harry.”

Harry makes a face, rolls his eyes. “Am I supposed to?” he asks, and it’s a larger question, really, and he can trust Niall to always, _always_ , tell him the truth. “As long as I fit in with you, I don’t really care what other people think of me. Besides, people usually don’t _think_ , anyway.”

And that’s the truth. It’s the truth.

Furrowing his brows, Niall stops and forces Harry to, as well; he’s turned to face Harry straight on, still holding Harry’s hand hotly in his as Harry gnaws at his lip, and they’re two people standing in a park in the billowing snow looking into each other’s eyes, and it’s something out of a romance novel, really.

Niall tilts his head to the side, just enough for Harry to see the dusty snowflakes getting caught in the wispy strands of blond-brown hair that’s curled around his ears, and there’s a soft, tentatively audacious smile curving at his lips that makes his mouth incredibly pink and so, so kissable.

And Harry suddenly realizes why he’s asked Niall to leave with him from the bridal store, why he’s asked Niall to take a walk with him through a park when it’s bitter cold and spitting snow, why he’s asked Niall to give him time, why he’s asked Niall to stay even though he knows everything is going to hurt more than it already does.

He’s in love with Niall. He’s fallen in love with Niall.

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh’ sounds ‘bout right.” Niall steps closer and, with the hand that isn’t tangled in Harry’s, reaches up and runs his finger along Harry’s bottom lip twice; Harry’s breathing catches but Niall’s warm, inviting smile allows him to take in air without complication. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

And ― and does Niall know what’s going on through Harry’s mind right now? Does he know that Harry is in love with him now?

Harry licks his lips, puckers his mouth as Niall inches closer; they meet halfway, and the kiss is warm, is a gentle pressure that makes Harry shake, and they’re only falling down the gaping chasm like feathers, but Harry doesn’t care because he isn’t alone in it anymore. Niall tastes like mint and strawberries and candy apples, and Harry flicks his tongue against the seam of Niall’s mouth, plunging inside slowly, carefully, and curling himself around Niall’s wet, sweet muscle, and everything just kind of explodes, kind of implodes.

It’s a wonderful way to go.

Niall’s hand is cupping Harry’s jaw, and it’s a lukewarm touch that makes Harry’s knees shake; he grips at the lapels of Niall’s leather jacket, hangs on tight because if he falls, he’s taking Niall with him.

They go down together, or they don’t go down at all. Simple as that.

Everything is perfect. So, so perfect. Harry’s forgotten about the snow and the cold and the numbness of his toes; he’s forgotten about his impending wedding and Lauren’s curiosity and Grace’s judging; he’s forgotten about his broken pride and cracked reasoning and stressful need to make everybody happy. Niall’s made him feel everything as a whole, and he’s enjoying every little snippet, good or bad. Niall makes him feel weightless, makes him feel on top of the world, makes him feel as if he’s suspended above a gaping chasm and just waiting for the drop to take his tummy, to take his yell of ferocious liberation ― like feathers falling from the sky.

Niall makes him feel as if he’s a feather falling from the sky.

Harry can’t help but smile, and Niall sighs with elation as he pulls his lips from Harry’s, licking Harry’s taste off of his mouth with a sharp tongue and wicked smirk. In his chest, Harry’s heart is a gentle flutter, soft and easy and tender, like the wings of doves taking off from the ground, searching for a high haven from the gathering snow on the ground.

Niall blinks, languid and indolent. “Your lips are cold,” he announces, thumbing at Harry’s lower lip.

Scoffing, Harry nips at Niall’s finger and he jerks back with a howl.

Niall opens his mouth to say something, and it’s sure to be a sarcastic remark at Harry’s show of aggression, really, but Harry’s phone dings and he frowns as he takes a step away, as he fishes the device out of his pocket. Lauren’s sent him a message, a picture, and he opens his phone to see that it’s a dress, and ― and it’s perfect.

She’s wearing the thing, surrounded by mirrors on either side that multiply her reflection; it’s cream-colored with tiny straps that hang on her shoulders, and it’s backless and tight till her knees, where it flows out in different layers like fluffy overlaps, like feathers.

But it doesn’t make Harry feel like he’s a feather falling from the sky, no matter how beautiful it is, no matter how beautiful she looks in it.

“Lauren found a dress,” Harry says, turns his phone around to show Niall with a gulp that makes his chest hurt, and everything is so suddenly ripped apart that Harry loses the little taste of happiness he had only seconds before. “And it’s beautiful.”


	36. thirty-six

“So, your uncle told me Lauren found a dress,” are the first words that come out of Niall’s mother’s mouth as soon as he rolls over and answers the screaming, protesting phone; he keeps his eyes shut tight, refusing to believe that he’s been awakened before his alarm, and ― and he loves him mum so, so much, but right now she’s landing on his last nerve and it’s too aggravating to ignore. “And since nobody thinks to ever inform me of what’s going on in our family’s lives, I want all the details of the hunt, son. I want it all.”

Of course. Of course she does; she’s always been a sucker for the details, for the little bitty things that piece together the large picture, the large puzzle, and Lauren is the daughter she always wanted but never got, really, and Niall adores the relationship the two most important girls in his life have with one another.

Lauren’s the sister Niall’s always wanted, too. Greg is an all right brother and Denise is a sweetheart of a sister-in-law; he doesn’t speak with them much, really ― Greg has a lot going on in his life (that Niall has been forbidden to know about seeing as the entire family seems to still think of him as ‘the baby’, which looks to be a thought he’ll never be able to escape no matter how old or successful he is; go figure) and Denise is catching up on all the coursework she neglected while being pregnant with Theo, and she’s looking at graduating from the community college in Mullingar in a year and a half if she’s to keep her hard work up.

And Niall hopes she can, hopes she’s able to graduate and pursue her dream of being a teacher for primary education students, for little kids with snotty noses and unlaced shoes and loads of unanswered questions that multiply by the second. She loves kids of all ages, but she has a special bond with younger children, and she’ll make the best teacher ever because she’s a great mother to Niall’s favorite little nephew.  

Niall sighs, flips over onto his back and spreads his legs wide, kicking off the thicket of blankets and sheets to allow a bit of air on his sweaty, dream-damp body; he loves his mum a lot more than is possible to ever put into words ― she could ask anything of him, and he would no doubt break himself in half to give it to her if it means he can see her smile from the effort of it all ― but sometimes she’s the epitome of a nosy old woman who doesn’t know what boundaries and privacy is.

He ought to be used to it by now, though. He’s grown up with the woman for twenty-two years, of course, flip-flopping between her house and his father’s for the few years before he set off for London; she’s always had a knack for asserting herself into situations that she oftentimes shouldn’t be part of, and her sweet smile and tender words are probably two of the only reasons she’s not been tossed out of several conversations, really.

“Mum, it’s, like, six in the morning,” he replies, grumbles; his voice is thick with sleep and his eyes are kind of matted together, and he makes a mental note to run by the pharmacy for some over-the-counter cold medicine. He’s starting his job today, and he can’t afford to come down with a sticky cold ― not when he already has to ask off for his cousin and best friend’s wedding. _Dammit_. “What are you doing?”

She usually wakes up early to head in to the pub to clean up from the night before so it’s spotless, spic and span, when it’s time to open at noon, and though she tends to call Niall from time to time to chat as she’s picking up beer bottles and washing thick mugs and flipping burger patties for the lunchtime rush, she’s not rang him this early before.

Of course it has to be the day he first works at the museum. _Of course_.

He isn’t mad, though. He’s kind of irritated and very aggravated, but he isn’t mad ― he can’t ever be angry at his mum. She’s the light of his life, the warmth in the cold of the night when he’s alone and wanting to go home.

She’s his rock. He can’t get mad at his rock.

“You start your job today, don’t you, son?”

Niall shuts his eyes, tips his head back and blows a breath out that puffs at his floppy, hanging hair, disrupting the bit that’s tickling annoyingly at his forehead. “I know ― I do,” he answers, nods his head, and she can’t see him but the phone rustles, makes a noise against the pillow, and she ought to know what he’s doing. “But I don’t have to be there till nine-thirty, and I was planning to sleep in till eight. Lauren’s not coming ‘round to fetch me till eight forty-five, anyway.”

Forty-five minutes is plenty of time for Niall to gather his messy self together and mold the streaked catastrophe into a semi-acceptable human being with gleaming teeth and moisturized skin and wrinkle-free clothes.

“Why would you sleep in on your big day?” his mum asks, and ― and he should’ve told her about everything so she could understand a little bit of what he’s going through at the moment. This is the same woman that woke him up at five when he wasn’t set to graduate till dusk, after all. “What kept you up all night?”

Harry. Harry kept him up all night.

It was Harry ― Harry, and his adorable smile and his thick voice and his electric touch and his stupid hair and his pink lips and his gritty tattoos and his dirty fingernails and his hair-patched skin and his pigeon-toed feet and his spotty tan and his knobby knees and his kind words and his inspirational affection and his sticky selflessness and his lack of decisiveness.

Harry kept Niall up all night because Niall can’t get the look on Harry’s graceless, worried face right before they kissed out of his mind.

And ― and Niall’s ignorant, really, to ever thinking that Harry realized he was in love with Niall in the park, to ever think that Harry would leave Lauren so the two of them can finally be together without feeling as if they’re breaking everybody in twos and threes and fours and fives.

If Harry really loves Niall ― if Harry is honestly in love with Niall in the same way that Niall is with Harry, then Harry would say no, would stop the wedding, would tell Lauren that he doesn’t care for her the way she cares for him and that he hopes and prays that she can find somebody who makes her feel as much at ease as Niall makes him.

But Harry doesn’t care for Niall the same way Niall cares for him, and it was very idiotic, very immature, very ill-advised of him to ever think Harry could be in love with somebody like him.

There’s nothing otherworldly special about Niall, anyway ― all he has to offer Harry is love, is support, is trust, is acceptance, is an open embrace and warm smile and solid comfort at the end of the day to fall in to and Niall’s always thought that was the most important thing in a relationship, really: the ability to calm each other’s fiery nerves after a rather hot day.

But he and Harry are different; Harry’s being selfless when he should be selfish, and Niall’s torn with being full of pride and being full of sorrow. There isn’t very many people in the world who would willingly give up their happiness so somebody else could smile, so somebody else could feel at ease in the turbulence of society, and Harry is definitely one of the world’s most precious people.

“Niall? Niall, are you still there? Have you fallen asleep on me again?”

Fuck. He does it one time ― falls asleep on his mum while they’re on the phone; it was during finals a few hazy years back and Niall wasn’t feeling very well because he had come down with some sort of mutated flu and he was speaking with her as she drove home from the pub to check in and Harry was rubbing his shoulders to ease the tight achiness in his body and Louis was warming up some soup so he could fill his tummy with something other than Pedialyte and Zayn was surfing through the channels to find an old movie all five of them could agree on and Liam was grabbing up all the pillows, all the blankets from the beds to have a sleepover in the living room so everybody could watch over each other ― and never lives it down.

“Yeah, Mum. I’m here.” He brings a hand up, rubs at his face; his eyes are droopy and heavy and thick, and the taste in the back of his throat is dry and sour and disgusting, and he feels so nasty that all the showers in the world wouldn’t be able to cleanse away his filth. He isn’t exactly sure as to why he’s so suddenly revolted by being in his own body; he doesn’t question it, either, for fear that what he finds will be something he wishes he wouldn’t. “Sorry. I just got to thinking, is all. What’d you ask?”

His mum sighs, lets out a deep breath that he can hear, that he can almost feel so far away. “Niall, I know you’re not a child anymore, but you’ll always be my baby, no matter how old you get or how far away you move from me,” she says, and Niall’s cheeks turn pink as his chest inflates, as his heart warms with the love and total adoration he has for his one of a kind mother. “You’re in a different country now, and I can’t just walk up the stairs and tell you to turn your lights out, to go to sleep like I did when you were still here.”

Niall thins his lips; his eyes are burning now, prickling with the want of his mummy, of his one true hero, and homesickness is an infection that never really leaves the body, really, and he isn’t afraid to admit that he sometimes curls himself into a ball and whines for everything that he left behind four years ago. “I know, Mum. I know.”

“And I’m happy you aren’t here ― I’m proud of you for going to London and chasing after your dream, baby. I really am.” She’s speaking soft, so soft, and the tone she’s using does nothing to soothe the mounting, climbing crave that’s eating away at his newfound independence. “But I do wish you would sleep a bit better than you have been, Niall. I can’t do very much since you’re there and I’m here, but it’ll calm my worries to know that you’re sleeping and eating properly.”

“Mum, I’m gonna cry,” he says, and he isn’t lying, either ― his eyes are wet and his chest is tight and his nose is burning, and he’ll definitely start crying if she keeps this up like she’s doing. Niall’s already an emotional wreck; he isn’t sure what else he can handle before he completely goes on a rampage of madcap destruction. He’s already about to blow as it is. “You can’t say stuff like this and not expect me to get a little bit emotional.”

“No tears, baby! We don’t have time to cry this morning!”

Niall laughs, rolls his eyes and sniffles, turning on his side and drawing his legs up to his chest; he’s wearing a too-big, well-worn multicolored t-shirt and loose black boxer shorts and mismatched socks ― one is long and the other is short, and the colors are inverted against one another; one is patterned with cartoon starfish and the other is streaked with Hot Wheels cars ― and he’s entirely too comfortable to crawl out of bed just yet.

Soon. Maybe.

“Why did you call, Mum?” he asks, tries to steer his wayward mother back on course. She’s a wild one, really, and she’s sometimes hard to tame, and Niall’s slowly realizing he got his flaming attitude from her, and it’s kind of cool, though, because they don’t clash like two people with similar personalities tend to. “What is it that you asked me?”

“I want to know about Lauren’s dress,” she replies, answers, and there’s so much excitement, so much joy, so much giddy jubilance in her bright voice that Niall is glad he never told his mother that he’s in love with the same man her honorary daughter is, too. A situation such as that surely wouldn’t be good, and Niall doesn’t want to pit his family against one another. “Do you have a picture?”

_Fuck no._

He doesn’t say that, though. He wants to ― really, really fucking badly ― but he doesn’t. His mum would surely skin his hide for his cheeky tongue, and he isn’t in the mood to start the day off with a round of chastising. Should it have been his father to call ― he does occasionally; texts are often exchanged between the two of them several times a day, though, for the convenience of each other and those around them, as well ― he wouldn’t have held his tongue like he does with his mum.

“No, Mum, I don’t.”

“Oh, well.” She grunts, lets out a sigh. “Can you describe it to me then? I’m in the car and I can’t wait till I get to the pub to text Lauren for a photo.”

Niall scratches his head, narrows his eyes. “It’s a dress, Mum. That’s ― it’s a dress.”

He doesn’t know how to go about describing something as breathtaking as the dress Lauren picked out to be married in. All his mum needs to know is that Lauren is going to steal the breath of the entire ceremony when ― if ― she walks down the aisle.

And Harry’s going to blow everybody away in his suit, as well, but that’s to be expected, really.  

“Well, I didn’t think she was getting married in a suit, son,” his mum chirps in reply, and ― and really, the image in his mind, the idea of Lauren wearing tux and Harry donning a dress for their wedding is quite wild, and it’s sure to be something that nobody will ever forget. But then he realizes that he’d have to wear a dress, too, and ― and yeah. Lauren can wear a dress and Harry can wear a tux; after all, Harry is striking whenever he wears a suit, and Niall’s afraid that he hasn’t got any shoes to go with the bridal gowns Lauren has picked out for her maids. “Just explain it to me, will ya?”

 _Dammit_.

He’s good at painting, at drawing, at photography ― not putting words together to make cognizant sense. That’s Harry and Louis’s specialty.

“It’s ― um, it’s… The straps are really little ― spaghetti strap, is what Grace called it, I think,” he begins, and it’s rough, really, but the picture in his mind is still quite clear, and Harry’s dark eyes when he showed Niall the image are hanging just as heavy as the image of the dress. “And it’s backless till, like, her mid-back, and it’s tight around her waist and hips and thighs. It hits her knees, and then on the sides it starts to flow out, but it doesn’t get big or fluffy in the front or back till it reaches her calves. And the train ― I think it’s a train; I think that’s what they called it ― is layered and it kind of looks likes feathers, in a way, and it’s made out of lace and there’s pretty little designs all over it, too. Oh, and it’s white ― not white-white, but a kind of off white that isn’t exactly cream. Just… It’s dull white. Reminds me of something out of history.”

His mum is silent for a moment, quiet and contemplative, and then she says, “It sounds absolutely beautiful.”

Niall nods. “It is.” And it really, truly is ― Lauren picked a gorgeous dress, and it complements her in certain ways that Niall’s never realized were able to be flattered before.

“I’m sure it looks stunning on her, too; Lauren is such a pretty girl, and I love that she isn’t little like your cousin Ione ― tiny thing, that one, and every time she gets pregnant, she looks like she’s hiding a basketball under her clothes,” she says, and Niall hums; Ione is his and Lauren’s older cousin, and she had five kids by the time she was thirty, which was only two years ago ― how she’s kept her figure, Niall will never know. “And you’re the best man, too, aren’t you?”

Niall gulps, tries to hide his abrasive distaste at her question by coughing, by hacking up a bit of phlegm that’s been hanging in his throat since he woke up. “Harry hasn’t asked me to be,” he answers, and he’s telling the truth ― Harry said he wouldn’t ask Niall to be his best man, and he hasn’t. Maybe that’s one promise Harry won’t break.

“Why hasn’t Harry asked? The wedding is in less than a month ― that kid needs to get his head on straight.”  

Niall shuts his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose; he’s getting used to the heaviness in his heart every time somebody brings up Harry without know what’s going on, and he sometimes doesn’t even feel the hurt that picks at his body. “It goes without saying that I’m to be the best man, Mum.”

And ― and how ironically fitting it is, you know, that Niall is to be the one to hand Lauren’s ring to Harry when he really, really just wants to toss the damned thing in a deep lake, when he really, really doesn’t want to watch Harry slip the band of love on Lauren’s finger when Niall knows Harry would rather have him.

He’d rather not show up to the wedding at all.

-

“Thanks for taking me today, Lauren,” Niall says around a mouthful of the breakfast burrito she picked up for him on her way over to his flat, and it’s a delicious bit of egg and sausage and hash brown and cheese all rolled up into a flour shell. “Honest. I hate the train so much. I’m going to have to get a car soon.”

She laughs, nods, takes a sip of the strong-smelling coffee she’s got poured in an insulated mug as she switches to the outside lane. “No problem, Ni,” she replies. “Harry wanted to be the one to take you, but Paul called him in early and he had to leave before I even woke up this morning. He said he was sorry, though, and that he’d see you before the weekend is over.”

Oh. She spent the night with Harry. Okay. Of course she did ― they’re engaged to be married, after all. Spending the night with one another isn’t really uncommon.

Niall wonders if Harry touches Lauren like he trails his fingertips along Niall’s brows, like he tickles his lips across Niall’s cheeks, like he rubs his hands up and down Niall’s gooseflesh-covered skin in hopes of making the both of them shiver a little bit harder, like he skims his feet against Niall’s, like he twines their legs together when they lay cuddled next to one another between the sheets.

Niall wonders, and he really shouldn’t he wondering, either ― not when he’s right next to Harry’s fiancée, not when he’s five minutes away from the first day of the rest of his life.

“Oh.” Niall takes a bite of the burrito, grabs the freshly-squeezed orange juice she got from the café and gulps a large sip to swallow down all that’s choking him off. “What for? Paul’s usually pretty lenient when it comes to his employees, isn’t he? That’s what Harry’s always told me, at least. I’ve never heard of him calling somebody in hours early. In fact, Paul’s told Harry he can work from home if he wants to.”

Lauren shrugs, makes a noise in the back of her throat that piques Niall’s attention. “I wouldn’t know,” she replies, and Niall wets his lips, wads the crinkled wrapper up in his hands and stuffs it into the paper sack at his feet to avoid a mess. “Harry doesn’t talk about his work much with me, and I don’t ask him to, either.”

“Oh?” Niall tries to keep the tinge of humor, of boastful elation out of his tone, but he isn’t exactly sure if he succeeded, and he’s appalled to realize he doesn’t really care.

“Yeah.” She sighs. “It upsets me, a little bit, that he isn’t open about his job and what he does when he’s there. He talks to you about it more than he does me.” Of course Harry does ― Niall is the one who cheered Harry on through the trials of rigorous coursework and late-night study sessions to catch up on the classes he was flunking in after being assaulted by an ex; it’s only normal for Harry to share his accomplishments and shortcomings with the one that’s been there for him through it all. “I can’t say I blame him, though. I don’t talk much about the office, either. If I were to complain, it’d be like the pot calling the kettle black.”

Niall blinks, turns his head to look out the window as the world passes by; the walks are crowded and the snow is a thin layer of blanketing feathers that paint the ground white, white, white, and everybody is wrapped up tight for the day.

“Why don’t you?” he asks, clears his throat. “Talk about the bank and stuff with him, I mean.”

She huffs, shakes her head as she flicks on the blinker; the museum is only a walk through the parking lot away, and the building is a towering mass that makes Niall’s skin crawl with chills of excitement.

This is it. It’s finally time for him to shine like the star he knows he is.

“He wouldn’t understand it,” she replies. “Harry is sharp and intelligent, but he wouldn’t understand what I have to deal with at the bank because he refuses to wrap his mind around something other than music and art and literature.”

Niall frowns, tries to hide the acidic expression on his face by taking a sip of the sour orange juice. Harry doesn’t refuse to wrap his mind around the bank’s ins and outs ― some people are good at English while others excel at math or science or geography or history, and just because Harry won’t understand it doesn’t mean he’s refusing to.

Sometimes people can’t understand certain things, no matter how many times it’s drilled into their mind, over and over and over.

“Maybe that’s why he doesn’t talk about his work with you,” Niall says, and he isn’t being rude, isn’t being nasty ― Lauren’s mindset is wrong, is streaked with irrationality, and Niall just wants to show her how easy it is to open her eyes to what’s going on around her. “You probably won’t understand what he has to deal with at the shop, either. As long as the two of you talk about what’s going on with somebody, it should all be okay.”

He’s just the _perfect_ person to be giving advice, isn’t he?

Lauren’s quiet as she finds an empty lot close to the entrance of the museum, as she parks the car and shoves the gearshift into place. “You’re probably right,” she acquiesces, lets her shoulders drop; Niall turns his head away from the window and meets her eyes, and they’re a dark, navy-colored blue that’s a little bit too dull for his liking. “I probably wouldn’t understand what goes on at that place just as much as Harry wouldn’t be able to comprehend what happens at the bank.”

Niall’s fingers are shaking as they reach out, as they find hers, as they twirl and interlace with hers till he can just how wound up she is. “Are you okay, Lauren?” he asks, and ― and it never occurred to her that the strain Harry and him are under could be affecting her, as well. Her tone is tired and her eyes are edged with a light lavender color and her face is pale and splotched with red bags that aren’t able to be hidden beneath the thin layer of gentle makeup she’s got smeared on, and he just hopes she isn’t expecting any foul play to be going on beneath her nose. “Are you all right?”

She nods, tips her head back a bit and wipes beneath her eyes to avoid smudging her makeup. “I’m not ― I mean, I’m not okay right now, really, but I think I’m going to be soon,” she replies, lets out a little laugh that sounds much too strangled to be true. “I’m just emotional, ya know. Harry and I are getting married in less than a month and my dad is seeing a new woman and my mother told me she’s becoming serious with one of her suitors to the point where they’re moving in with one another and I’m stressed and I keep gaining weight and I’m tired all the time and all I want to do is eat.”

Niall turns white. “You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

Because, if she is, Niall can’t do it ― he can’t continue to see Harry in the halo-like light that he’s bathed in now. Niall won’t do that to Lauren, to the precious little life she’s carrying inside of her tummy.

“Oh, no ― God, no,” Lauren replies, chuckles at Niall’s question, and Niall’s sigh of relief brings on another round of giggles from her. “I’m on the pill, and Harry uses a condom every time, and we’ve not had sex since… since the day you moved out back in November. If I was pregnant, I’m sure I’d have realized it by now. Besides, I’m on my period.”

 _Yuck_.

About the sex, not the cycle. Most females have to deal with it, and Niall’s of a mind that men have their very own period, their very own time of the month, too.

“Too much information, sis,” Niall says, screws his face up into an exaggeratedly-disgusted expression. “I didn’t need to hear about that.”

She smiles, and when she smiles, Niall swears he can hear the way it sounds when somebody falls in love. “You act like you’ve never had sex before,” she says, and it’s a joke ― Niall knows it’s a joke but, the thing is, she’s telling the truth. Niall’s not had sex with a man or woman before, always holding off with the lukewarm thought that it’ll be Harry to take his virginity.

What a load that is.

Niall squeezes her hand, looks at the clock on the dash: it reads nine twenty-one, and he knows he ought to go ahead and sign in for the day. “I’d better get going, Lauren,” he announces, leans over the console and puts a kiss to her temple. “I’ll see you later, m’kay?”

She nods, and the smile on her face is a hell of a lot more real than it was moments before. “Have a good day,” she says, and Niall nods, murmurs for her to have a nice one, too, and he’s opening the door, stepping out, and she’s calling out to him before he can go, and the love in her tone makes Niall’s heart freeze over. “Be sure to ask off for fifth through the eighth. Harry and I are getting married on the seventh, and we’re leaving the night of the fourth, and you’re to ride the plane with us since you’re the best man.”

 

 


	37. thirty-seven

“Hey.”

 Startled, a bit caught off guard ― it is borderline dark outside already, and Niall’s mummy has always warned him that, no matter what part of the city or town or place or country he’s in at the time, to be cautious of what happens when the sun goes down, when it sinks low behind the looming horizon, and he’s quite the rebel, what with taking the bus after hours, really, although he was able to secure a ride with Lauren this evening with the promise from him that he and Grace will go hunt for a cheap vehicle for him tomorrow, on Saturday, which is when he’s off (although it’s kind of weird, you know, to start a job on a Friday and then be let off Saturday and Sunday only to start back again Monday, but Niall isn’t really complaining) ― Niall jerks his head up as his hand swims in the pea coat he’s wearing over his suit, grappling for his phone just in case something needs to be done.

However, it’s not anybody to be afraid of, really; his heart has already been stolen, has already been ripped gracelessly from his chest, and he doesn’t have anything left to give the person in front of him because he already has it all.

There, stood before him in a well-worn royal blue shirt and dark jeans and scuffed boots and a black overcoat and a thick plaid scarf wrapped around his neck is Harry, is the fire of Niall’s life and the light of his loins, and the wind is blowing, kind of, brushing through the little loose hairs that are curled around Harry’s ears, escaping from the tight bun he’s got tied, and ― and _dammit_ , he looks cuddly, looks soft, looks warm and welcoming and wickedly wayward in so many ways that he shouldn’t be.

Lauren’s supposed to be coming to pick Niall up, anyway; why’s Harry here instead?

Harry ought to be running for the hills, tucking tail and taking off like a fox through the woods, dodging and ditching the hunters chasing after ― he’s given Niall false hope plenty of times before, of course, but at the park, when his eyes were wide and his lips were pink and his heart was bare on his sleeve and the flowers in Niall’s tummy were touched by the tenderness of Harry’s vulnerability, Niall thought he was going to finally, _finally_ , announce to Lauren that he didn’t want her anymore, that he wanted Niall because he’s in love with Niall.

And ― and though Harry probably did that on accident, unintentionally, Niall feels betrayed, feels stripped naked and streaked with mean words on his skin that are reverberating in his mind, in his heart, in his soul, over and over and over.

The flowers in his tummy ― they were torn to shreds by the falsity of Harry’s tenderness, and now he’s full of nothing but wilting petals of pretty, pretty floral designs that matched the colors in Harry’s heart.

Is this what humiliation feels like?

He doesn’t like it; he isn’t sure if he would wish this sticky, disgusting, dilapidating, destructive emotion on even his worst enemy.

Niall frowns. “Harry?” he asks, slants his head to the side just a bit; the museum has already closed, and the security lights lined atop the awning that reaches out over half of the walk are bright enough to illuminate every single edge, every single curve, every single defined plain of Harry’s pretty, pretty face. “What are you ― why are you here?”

It’s odd ― odd, but Niall won’t say that he isn’t a little bit excited, a little bit giddy and silly and content to see Harry because he is. He’s mutedly elated to see Harry before him, wrapped up tight and cozy and cute and comfortable. They’ve not seen one another since the ninth, since the two of them and Lauren and Gracie went shopping, since they stealthily sneaked away from the search party for the perfect dress ― since Niall thought Harry said all the words Niall’s his heart’s always wanted to hear, and Niall’s happy to see Harry.

He’s happy to see Harry.

Is that wrong, though? Is it horrible that he’s happy, that he’s satisfied Lauren seemed to have either forgotten or ignored him so he can see Harry at least one more time before they board the plane to Ireland on the fourth of February to partake in a wedding that shouldn’t even be happening?

In fact, what is it that makes society, that makes the human race ― individually and wholly ― consider a person _bad_?

Harry smiles, presses his lips together in a line that looks like a halfhearted grin, and the butterflies in Niall’s tummy are mending the withering petals and storing them away for safekeeping till it’s time to plant them again ― and they’re going to flourish.

“Lauren rang me up thirty minutes ago and said she wasn’t going to be able to pick you up ‘cause her boss wanted her to stay over and fill out a bit of paperwork he conveniently forgot to sign,” Harry answers, rolls his eyes, and a smirk twitches at the corner of Niall’s lips; he never knew Harry was cross with Lauren’s boss, and that’s just a little bit hilarious, really. “She asked if I could swing by after work and bring you back to yours, and ― and I wanted to take you this morning, Niall. I really, really did.”

“I know you did.” Niall nods, steps forward, into Harry’s open-armed space; Harry smells like peppermint and spice and woods, and he’s a warmth against Niall’s shoulder that drags out every savage, wanton emotion in his body ― he wants to take Harry into his mouth and suck and taste and swallow till neither of them know anything except how to scream the other’s name because he’s tired of not knowing what it feels like to be connected with somebody emotionally, mentally, and physically. “And I know you would’ve brought me, too, had Paul not called you in. I’m not mad, Harry. Promise. Stuff happens sometimes.”

And he isn’t. Mad, that is. He’s not really got a reason to be; sure it’s more or less expected of Harry to gather Niall and tour him around when he’s in need of a ride ― because that’s how it’s always been, really, and neither one of them have given any thought to changing things, it seems ― and having been prematurely awakened by his mother only to read a text from Harry apologizing and announcing that he isn’t going to be able to fetch him (and apologizing again and again and again ‘cause Harry can’t seem to say sorry enough whenever he’s with Niall) was a bit of a letdown, of course, but Niall isn’t mad, isn’t upset, isn’t blaming Harry.

After all, the day went perfect regardless of who and how he got to work. Life is something that can only be planned out to a certain degree, and he quite likes the cards that fate is dealing him in a way; he’s furthering himself, gobbling up the bit of confidence he had and multiplying it by ten, by fifty, by a hundred, by a thousand. Fate’s helped to mold him into the person he is at this very moment, and he isn’t exactly sorry for all the hell he’s had to go through.

It’s okay, in the end. Everything’s going to be okay ― just like Gemma said.

And Niall will believe her because Harry believes her, because she believes in Harry when nobody else ― not even Niall ― did; she’ll not steer either of them wrong, that’s for sure. Gemma is Harry’s Grace, and Niall knows how much trust, how much appreciation Harry holds for Grace; it’s only right for Niall to take care of Gemma in the way that Grace is taking care of Harry.

It’s… It’s all just a big mess, really, and the stickiness of it can’t be washed away no matter how hard they scrub.

“I just ― Paul has been a mess ever since he came back, and he can’t seem to find his ass from a hole in the ground, and he’s proving to me just why he pays me six figures a year,” Harry spews, scoffs a laugh; he steps into Niall, and their shoulders touch, rub together, and it’s old outside but it’s simmering in their little bubble and Niall’s in love with Harry’s heat. “He did treat me to an hour long lunch, though, at the Greek cuisine place, and that definitely made up for a long ass day.”

Niall chuckles. “I bet.”

“How was your day, baby?” Harry asks, flicking his eyes to Niall’s as they begin their trek toward Harry’s car, which is parked a few spaces down, still running and no doubt cozily warm; Niall wonders if Harry’s even aware of how otherworldly affectionate he tends to be at times. “Are you liking it so far?”

Niall nods ― and nods and nods and nods. This job is everything that he thought it would be, and then so much more, too: there’s art and there’s history and there’s raging war and there’s sighing peace and there’s intelligent conversations about the opinionated meaning behind each piece and there’s soft praises of amazement whispered in the thicket of a tour group and there’s deep questions asked from the back of minds that Niall has all the answers to, and he loves it.

He absolutely loves it so much.

He loves everything about it already, and he’s only been working for one day; this is something he can see spending the rest of his life doing, somewhere he can see spending the rest of his life at. There isn’t anything in the world much better than waking up in the morning with a smile on your face and a bounce in your step and no need to drink several cups of coffee to come alive because you know you’re going to be doing something you love, and that realization just brightens everything, really ― especially when everything is so stressed, so pressed, so tense and tight in this world.

Why not find happiness, find a little bit of joy, wherever he can?  

“I like it,” Niall replies, opts to be careful and mature instead of vomiting out everything he’s feeling ― it’s all sparkling rainbows and firecracker-colored lights, anyway, and there’s nothing that can drag him down from the high mountain peak he’s fought like hell to reach. He doesn’t think Harry would care, though, if he were to just start spewing his mind. “I really enjoyed it, and I already know this is one place that will be difficult to leave. I think ― I think this is where I need to be. This is where I want to be.”

“You can tell me all about it on the way to your flat, yeah?” Harry says, blinks, and they’re at his car and he’s opening Niall’s door and Niall’s sliding inside and it’s warm and Harry is bending in, too, and he’s putting his lips to Niall’s nose and Niall may or may not be swooning from the abrupt show of affection and Harry’s smiling at the shock that’s surely painted across Niall’s face. “I’m going back to your place to stay for a while. I’m a bit hungry, and you can cook like no other.”

-

“What sounds good to you?” Niall asks, throws the question over his shoulder as he slides the key into his door and unlocks it, shoving it wide; he steps in, slaps around on the wall to his left till he finds the light, and it switches on, bathing everything in brightness, and he’s just glad his mum called him early this morning so he could pick up a bit around the place.

Underwear slung over the television and spilled lotion on the tiny table in the kitchen and dirty socks shoved into the crispers of the refrigerator surely isn’t something that somebody would want to see.  

“You,” Harry replies, shuts the door; the distinct noise of metal on metal permeates the tense air, and Niall knows that Harry’s turning the lock, and he isn’t exactly sure why, really, but there’s a bubble of bitter excitement in his abdomen. “You look good enough to eat ― and I promise I’ll swallow it all, baby.”

Niall frowns at Harry’s lecherous comment, turns around completely and faces Harry ― and Harry’s smiling and his cheeks are red from the cold and his faded green eyes are bloodshot from the wind and he looks cute, looks adorable, looks handsome, and if this is what a relationship with Harry is like, filled with cheeky remarks and giggling confessions and goofy grins and corny jokes, Niall doesn’t think he would ever be bored again.

No wonder why Niall loves Harry so, so much ― he’s got a raw way of making you feel alive when nothing, when nobody else can give you what he does.

Harry gives and gives and gives ― and gives and gives and gives some more, too. He’s always giving, always allowing people to take and take and take, even though he has almost nothing left; when is he ever going to receive what he’s continuously putting out?

Niall sighs, rolls his eyes. “Harry,” he says, breathes, and it’s a warning he’s afraid neither of them are going to take seriously.  

Harry shrugs. “’M not lying, baby,” Harry replies, and ― and does he even realize that he’s saying it, that he’s calling Niall his baby when he already has a baby girl? Does he even realize that he has the ability to toss Niall’s sanity away like a soiled napkin that has wiped up a bit too many spills in its day ― does he even realize the earth-shattering effect he has on Niall with just one look, with just one word, with just one touch? “I really, really want to taste you ― want to taste the way you feel on my tongue and watch you come undone. I want to see you lose it all ‘cause of me.”

_What?_

Oh, fuck.

“Harry ―”

“I know you want that, too,” Harry inserts himself, cuts Niall off; he rushes forward, swift and fast and hurried, and his hands are on Niall’s shoulders, shoving his coat off, and it’s a mountain of black fabric at Niall’s feet and he isn’t sure what to do because he’s never been in a situation like this before.

“I…” Niall begins, trails off; he brings his hands to his face, puts his fingers to his closed eyes and rubs till all he can see is black, black, black. “I don’t know what I want, but I know ― I know you and I shouldn’t do anything physical with one another, Harry.”

“But you want it?” Harry asks, prompts; his hands are strong on Niall’s shoulders and his voice is bringing the colors back across Niall’s dark vison. “Do you want me to touch you like that, Niall?”

Yes. Fuck, yes.

But it’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. They’ve dragged Lauren along this dead-end road enough, lying and cheating and fibbing and betraying, and they can’t keep doing this to her.

_They can’t._

And they shouldn’t want to, either, but they do. Niall wants to so, so bad.

“I ―”

“I mean, you’ve not been out with anybody in a year that I know of, and I’m sure you’re probably missing having your cock sucked till you’re absolutely leaking and coming all over the place, and ― and I’ve never given a blowjob, but I’ve gotten enough, like three, that I kind of know how to do it, and… and I consider myself a male, and you and I aren’t really anything alike, but I bet I can make you feel better than all those other people you had before me.”

Niall gulps, swallows around a lump that’s formed drastically in his throat, and all he can think about is Harry on his knees, is Harry tickling his fingers across Niall’s waist before jerking his jeans and boxers down, is Harry flicking his eyes up to meet Niall’s, is a tentative smile on Harry’s face as he goes through steps of trails and errors, is Harry sucking at the head with those pansy pink lips, is Harry licking the thick shaft up and down and up and down and up and down, is Harry wrapping his mouth around the tip and hollowing his cheeks and sinking low, low, low, allowing Niall to fuck inside deep and fast and hard, is Harry’s noises as he gags and Harry’s face as his gaze turns bleary with red tears and spit drips from the corners of his mouth.

Oh. Oh, fucking _wow_.

But ― but there’s not been anybody before Harry. There’s been no one before Harry.

There’s just been _Harry_.

“It… It’s just you, Harry,” Niall announces, quiet and soft, but he isn’t shy ― he’s with Harry, and Harry relishes embarrassment and dances in the ring of bullied laughter, and Niall can’t ever be timid around the person who brought him out of his shell, really, even though he’s confessing a secret nobody knows about him. “You’re the only person I’ve ever been with.” And he’s not really been with Harry, in that way, unless dry-humping in a public restroom till they creamed in their pants counts. “It’s only ― it’s always been _you_. It’ll always be you.”

Harry’s silent.

Half-scared and a bit apprehensive, Niall removes his hands from his face and opens his eyes; Harry’s mouth is parted and his expression is a pale picture of pure mystification that astounds Niall to the point where all he can feel is raw astonishment.

“You’re a virgin?”

Sheepishly, Niall nods.

“And ― and I’ve been the only one to touch you?”

Again, Niall nods, but he’s a bit bolder, a bit stronger. There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin, and there’s also no shame in holding out for yourself or enjoying a load promiscuousness, either ― if you want to fuck a different person every day, go for it, and if you have a problem with people innocently touching you, that’s fine, too, as long as respect is shared around the spectrum.

“You’re the only person I want to touch me,” Niall says, and Harry’s eyes go wide, and there’s so many screaming colors in his eyes that Harry feels blinded for a moment. “You’re the only person I want.”

It kind of happens fast, then ― Harry makes a weird sort of growl in the back of his throat and he moves forward, slamming into Niall’s body, and they fall backward; Niall lands against the wall with an ‘oof’ and Harry’s pressed so, so hard and close and tight into him that he can feel the outline of everything.

 _Everything_.

Harry’s mouth is gentle on Niall’s, moving and kissing and licking and nipping, and Niall’s hands are harsh as they tug Harry’s hair free from his bun, plunging his fingers through the greasy, messy tendrils; Harry pries Niall’s mouth open and Niall lets out a bout of lascivious moans from deep within his throat, and their noises are a shared melody of perfection.

Insistently, one of Harry’s hands wrap around the base of Niall’s neck, applying only a bit of pressure; the other moves low, scratches along the buttons of Niall’s shirt, unsnapping them till it’s just two flaps hanging wide on Niall’s chest, and Harry’s fingers are wild as they rake across the skin, leaving behind pink-purple marks of passion, pinching at Niall’s nipples till Niall is straddling one of Harry’s legs and absently grinding his growing erection on Harry’s thick thigh to alleviate some of the beautiful pressure.

He feels filthy. Niall feels filthy and dirty and disgusting, but _fuck_ , he can’t get enough of it. He and Harry are going at it like animals, in a sense, and they’re screwing their situation up all the more, and Niall can’t get enough because he’s gone so long without it.

Fuck.

Harry jerks away from Niall’s lips, and the viscid saliva that bridges their kiss-red lips breaks and lands on Harry’s jaw and neck, hugging the contours, and Niall’s pants have gotten a bit too tight for comfort, and he latches onto Harry’s skin, slurping it all up before pulling back and offering a sheepish shrug.

“I’m going to touch you,” Harry announces, blinks his eyes, and it takes Niall a moment to realize exactly what kind of words are coming out of his pretty, pretty mouth. “I’m going to touch you, okay? And ― if you don’t want this, I’ll stop. If… if I push you too hard or too far or too fast, tell me to stop, and I will. I promise you I’ll stop.”

“Harry?” Niall whispers, inhales deeply; the lack of oxygen between them is dangerously hot. “Harry, what ―”

Harry drops to his knees at that moment, fiddles with the snap of Niall’s slacks as he finds a comfortable position on the floor before stuffing his fingers into the waistband; his mouth adheres to Niall’s lower tummy, and his kisses are soft and promising and careful and full of sparkling gentleness that makes Niall feel as if he’s a glimmering star high in the sky, and Niall’s hands have nowhere to go but Harry’s hair, where he curls inside of the mess and tugs and tugs and tugs.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Harry asks, pants onto Niall’s wet skin, and his breath is a chill that makes Niall shiver, that makes Niall shudder as goosebumps dance along his damp skin, and he’s glad that Harry’s got him pushed up against the wall so his knobby knees don’t give out on him.

“I do,” Niall replies, gasps ― the blood in his body is lightning and the air in his lungs is thunder and the love in his heart is torrential rainfall and the fire in his loins is the destruction that all three can bring. “I do, I do, I do.”

Harry smiles, painting a pretty picture down on his knees, and he’s made of wind and nature and sandy beaches and salty oceans and real smiles that feel as if they’re tattooed onto the backs of a person’s eyelids for years.

“It’s you, too, Ni,” he says, and it’s a chant in Niall’s mind, over and over and over, and it’s all he can think: it’s you it’s you it’s you it’s you. “And it’ll always be you. I hope you know that.”

Niall does. Kind of.  

His slacks are tugged down at that moment, and his boxers follow; he slips free from the restraint of his clothes and the chill of the air is cold on the wetness of his tip, creating a fire/ice sensation that burns and brings upon another round of racking shivers, but Harry’s breath is warm and comforting as he breathes on the head.

Niall tips his head back against the wall, shuts his eyes against the onslaught of feel-good hormones that mold him into pliant putty; his body is thrumming, turning red, and he’s hot all over, too, and he’s shamelessly eager to have Harry’s mouth all over his body.

He’s waited twenty-two years for somebody to take it, after all, and he doesn’t want anybody have this piece of him but Harry.  

It’s a shock when it happens ― Harry’s mouth is warmer and wetter than Niall thought it would be, though he doesn’t have anything to compare it to other than his hand smothered in lube as he tugs one out in the middle of the night between the sheets ― and Harry makes a surprised yelp in the back of his throat at the taste, it seems; he’s sturdy and steady and secure, though, as he swirls his tongue around the head, over and over and over, and Niall’s nerves are flames in his body that are burning him to ash, that are taking Harry with him into orange-yellow embers.

But oftentimes some of the most infamous fires spark from bright embers in the black-gray-white-silver ashes.

“Oh, Harry.”

Harry makes a noise, and Niall echoes the groan with a whimper of his own; Harry pulls back, slurps up the spit that’s collected at the tip and swallows it with a loud, spine-tingling gulp that causes Niall to arch, to shove himself deep inside of Harry’s mouth unintentionally.

Harry gags a bit, sputters around Niall’s length, and Niall shivers, pulls back with a hint of fear and a load of sorrow. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says, gasps, apologizes again and again and again.

He goes to pull back, to slip himself out of Harry’s mouth, but Harry’s fingers grab at Niall’s ass, gripping the plump flesh, and he’s holding Niall there, pushing Niall forward, flopping his tongue and opening his mouth and allowing Niall to have total control.

Harry wants Niall to take advantage of him in all that ways that Harry has taken Niall for granted.

And ― and Niall is gentle. He moves forward a bit, slips his angry wet head into Harry’s mouth, and Harry closes his lips around the tip, suckles deeply, and Niall moves forward as Harry’s cheeks hollow; Niall reaches the back, and Harry begins to swallow around the thickness, slathering his tongue all over the length, and Niall is completely overrun with a volley of yes, yes, yes emotions to think coherently at all.

A coiling in Niall’s stomach intensifies the ferocity of his moans and makes him jerk at Harry’s hair, eliciting a whine that vibrates his cock, and ― and he’s coming then, hard and fast and deep and abrupt, and it’s a rush of sudden cum that gags Harry, that makes the tears that have gathered on his long lashes fall onto his red cheeks and dribble down his chin like the spit that’s leaking from his mouth, and Niall’s breathing hard, panting and pulling in air swiftly to calm himself down as Harry continues to absently gulp around his softening prick.

It’s not helping.

Harry pulls away, keeps his head down as he settles back onto his legs; Niall hurries to jerk his drawers up, falls to his knees in front of Harry. His hands are shaking and his fingers are trembling as they cup Harry’s cheeks, as they bring his face up so their eyes can meet.

“Harry?”

Harry blinks, gives Niall a smile and opens his mouth, shows Niall that his jizz is a little puddle in the middle of Harry’s tongue. “Salty,” he muses, wrinkles his nose adorably, and ― and really, Niall quite likes the way it feels to kiss his own cum out of somebody else’s mouth.


	38. thirty-eight

“What got into you?”

Harry blinks, wets his lips once he pulls away from Niall’s ― there’s still a juicy taste of cum on his mouth that he never wants to get rid of, though, even if the stuff is sour and bitter and grainy-like in his teeth ― and shrugs, offers a sheepish grin that causes a blush to color his cheeks because he really _doesn’t_ know what’s gotten into him all of a sudden.

He saw Niall ― he saw Niall, heard Niall speak, smelled Niall’s scent that’s _just_ _him_ , touched Niall’s skin, and it kind of blew up from there. He can’t explain something he doesn’t understand, but he can enjoy something he’s never felt before at the same time.

This ― giving Niall his first blowjob is a first for Harry, too, and it’s beautiful, in a weird sense, that they’re learning how to be together with one another; they’re growing and evolving and realizing things with each other, and that’s just so, so pretty.

“I… I don’t really know,” he replies, and he’s telling the truth. He brought Niall back to his flat with the full intention of either ordering some food or putting a dish together in Niall’s small kitchen, and ― and then he saw Niall outside of the museum, bathed and backlit by the security lights tapered to the awning of the building, and his needy heart took over his mind because Niall looked like an angel, like a prince, like a ruler. Of Harry’s heart, that is. “I just ― I took one look at you and I knew. I just _knew_ , Ni. I can’t explain it anymore.”

Niall’s lips twitch up into a goofy grin, and Harry is floored by his total abandonment. “You just knew you were going to give me my first blowjob, huh?” he asks, teases Harry’s sensitive stability; he brings his finger up, trails the tip of it along Harry’s jawline, and the fiery sparkles that ignite across his skin are out of this world.

_Oh my goodness._

“No!” Harry exclaims, rears back, and he falls over, topples onto his back, and it’s a clash against his spine that sends a wave of aching pain through his body, and Niall’s sat before him on his knees with an entertained and blissfully euphoric smile, and this would be quite comical if everything wasn’t crashing down, down, down in the most beautiful of ways. “I ― I didn’t come here expecting to suck you off, Niall. I… I promise.”

Niall slants his head, and there’s a challenging gleam in his stelliferous eyes, and ― and fuck, his eyes are so beautiful, so pretty, so easy to get lost in and be enthralled by: they’re blue like the fathomlessness of the frightening ocean, pale-like on top and then darker as it deepens till it seems to be almost black, and they’re streaked with yellow and gold and green, little flecks of faded sunshine and warm flames that lick into the night air and deep forests that hold so many secrets, and looking into them is what it feels like to know all the wonders of the world.

They make him look innocent, make him look little in the sense that he needs somebody to take care of him, always ― but Niall doesn’t. He’s innocent, yes ― as Harry is, too, in a few certain ways that he doesn’t care to explain to anybody at the moment ― but he doesn’t need anybody to keep him, doesn’t need anybody to watch over him. Niall is strong, and he’s resilient and independent and so bloody true to who he wants to be that it’s absolutely _breathtaking_.

Niall is the type of moving art to make people on the sidewalk stop and stare for a little while before going on about their lives with a new idea of what beauty is in the back of their mind to forever change their way of thinking.

“Why did you come?” Niall asks, and his voice reminds Harry of the way crepitating creeks sound in the wilderness as they dance and flow and ebb and trickle over moss-covered rocks, through tiny hidden caverns of damp silt. “I’m not mad you touched me ― I kind of liked it, and I think you did, too.” Niall winks, and Harry’s blush redoubles its efforts as Niall brings attention to the half-hard bulge that’s tamed, that’s tapered down by the restraint of his jeans.

“ _Niall_ ,” Harry whines, draws Niall’s name out and shuts his eyes, covers his face with his hands. “Don’t do that to me. It was my first time, too, and ― and I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t know what to do.”

And he doesn’t. It’s new to him, being with a male when all he’s ever consummated with was women because he never found the right man to touch him, and ― and maybe he was waiting absentmindedly, too, for Niall like Niall has been him. Maybe, in the back of Harry’s mind, the reason he’s never pursued a relationship with a man is because he didn’t want one unless it would be with Niall ― maybe Harry’s been holding out for Niall just as long as Niall’s been holding out for him.

Oh. Oh, _wow_.

What a thought ― what a feeling to be able to figure out all his secrets whenever he’s with the one person in the world that makes him question himself most.

“Feel good about it, Harry. Did you like it?” Niall’s question is gentle, and Harry’s nod is firm; he isn’t going to lie to himself or Niall ― having Niall’s thick length in his mouth, rubbing along his tongue and poking at the back of his throat and delivering a taste he’s never had before, was hot, was treacherously lascivious and sensual, and he wouldn’t mind doing it over and over and over again, every day for the rest of their lives, if he was given the allowance. “Good. If you liked it, just be happy it happened. Just feel good about it, Harry.”

Harry brings his hands down from his face, wets his lips again because they’re feeling awful dry without being connected with Niall’s; Niall is a king that’s stooped at the same level of him, and relief washes over him as he realizes that everything about this encounter is equivalent and that he can throw his thoughts out in the open without them being trampled upon by the hooves of knights who believe they’re better than everyone because of their high title.

“I’ll… I’ll try. For you, baby, I’ll try.”

“Try for yourself, H,” Niall says, and his smile is contagious. “I am really curious, though. Why did you come home with me if you didn’t plan on touching me like you did?”

Harry gulps, blinks his eyes; Niall’s looming over him like a dominant being now, and Harry’s yielding to the power that Niall isn’t aware he holds above Harry’s head. There’s no other person in the world Harry will get on his knees for except for Niall, and he hopes Niall’s aware of that fact.

“I… I really am hungry, Ni,” he replies, and Niall’s goofy grin grows, and Harry’s lips are twitching up into a smile, as well. “I’m hungry, and ― and Lauren’s staying over at the bank tonight because of some sort of business and I don’t want to be alone and I just want to be with _you_. I just want to spend the night with you, baby, because you make me feel less alone whenever I’m with you.”

“You’re welcome here, Harry,” Niall says, putting his hands on Harry’s shoulders and pushing him back, till he’s laid out on the floor completely and Niall is sat on thighs, straddling his hips. “You don’t have to wait till Lauren leaves or is gone to come to me. You can stay here ― you can be with me any time you want. You don’t have to wait till a believable excuse pops up out of nowhere ― if you want me, Harry, you can have me. You can have me because you’ve already got me.”

“Do I?” Harry asks, quiet in the wet intensity that they’re drowning in; he raises his right hand, puts it on Niall’s cheek, rubbing at the red blotches and light lavender-colored bags that hang beneath his pretty, pretty eyes, that cause an opiating in Harry’s soul he can’t ignore. “Do I have you?”

Niall blinks, and Harry wants to tell him to stop, wants to tell him that every time he blinks and doesn’t allow Harry to see his gorgeous eyes that Harry loses a bit of himself, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t for many, many reasons; he’s selfless at heart, but he thinks that aspect of him is often overlooked because of the problems he’s caused and is continuing to cause.

“Yes,” Niall says, and it’s barely above a whisper, really, but to Harry, it feels as if it’s the loudest scream he’s ever heard, ricocheting in his head like a bouncy ball in an enclosed room. “Yes. Yes ― of course you have me, you silly boy. You’re the only person I want to ever have me.”

Harry’s stomach flares with pride, with love, with adoration and alleviation and affection. “Even… even though I’m a bad person and I can’t give you what you want and I’ve made you cry more than anybody in the world, I still have you,” Harry says, and he’s mystified, bewildered and perplexed but so, so satisfied and pleased and content conciliated that there are flowers growing in his heart that match the colors in Niall’s eyes, and they’re both a work of art that nobody will understand except for them. “Even though I’m the worst person to give your heart to, I still have you.”

“You’re not the worst, and you aren’t a bad person, either. There’s no such thing.” Niall’s hands slap lightly against Harry’s chest, and his fingers curl in the blue fabric of the well-worn t-shirt Harry’s had since he was seventeen, and Harry likes the way Niall is ultimately possessive of him. It holds a lot of memories, the shirt, and if it could talk it would surely tell on Harry; he can’t ever throw it away because it means something to him, and he’s never been one who values materials over memories, per se, but, in this case, they’re one and the same. “You’re just ― you’re just in a mess, and you can’t get out of it, and that doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t make you a bad person in my eyes at all.”

“What does it make me?”

Because Niall’s opinion of him matters so, so much. Out of everybody in the world ― strangers, acquaintances, friends, family, lovers, spouses ― Niall is the only one that has the ability to make or break Harry’s confidence with just a single look, a single touch, a single word.

“It makes you a real person, and I love you for it,” Niall replies, and he’s smiling, and it’s tugging a grin from Harry, too. “I love you, Harry.”

_I love you, too._

But he doesn’t say it. He can’t say it just yet. He will, though ― he will confess his love with Niall before he signs his happiness away at the alter to a wonderful girl who deserves so much better than what she wants.

Niall leans down then, puts his lips to Harry’s again, and this kiss is soft and chaste and slow and cute; they’re touching with their lips, with their bodies, with their hearts, with their minds, and their souls are two orbs colored faint green and baby blue that swirl and dance and twirl and prance in the world they’ve created for themselves, in a world that’s all their own, in a world where they’re each other’s kings.

-

Harry sighs, brings his face up and presses his dry lips to the warmth of Niall’s chest, grinning as he feels the invigorating thump-thump-thump of Niall’s complaisant heart. They’re naked ― well, not really: Niall’s dressed down in his pretty pink boxers and Harry’s blue shirt that he tugged off and replaced with a too-big hoodie when they were cooking, and Harry settled for a pair of Niall’s sweats instead of his sticky jeans ― and they’re tangled in Niall’s bed, hidden between the sheets from the world outside, and it’s a serenity Harry’s not had the good fortune of experiencing in so, so long.

It’s like seeing a long-lost friend ― it’s like coming home after being gone so long, it’s like standing in the rain as it washes all his cares away at the end of a tiring day, it’s like staring at the sun because Niall could easily blind someone. 

This must be what heaven is like. The feel of the satin sheets on his bare skin, the sound of Niall’s steady heart beneath his ear, the smell of their touches lingering in the air, the taste of Niall on his tongue, the sight of kissed purple bruises on the sensitive skin of Niall’s neck ― heaven is a place on earth with Niall.

“This is nice,” Niall muses, curls his arms a bit tighter around Harry’s naked shoulders.

“Nice?” Harry repeats, snorts a laugh as he brings a hand up and presses his palm flat against Niall’s right breast. “This is paradise.”

And it is. Island getaways and expensive cabins in the thicket of modernized woods and trips to the prettiest cities with the flashiest lights isn’t paradise, isn’t wonderland ― for Harry, the land of milk and honey is being sprawled in Niall’s arms in the middle of the night between the sheets that’s hiding their secrets from the world.

That’s heaven, paradise, the ultimate nirvana.  

“It is paradise, isn’t it?” Niall hums, brings his fingers up to card through Harry’s damp hair ― he and Niall cooked a mountain of pancakes a few hours ago, and in doing so had a small fight with the syrup and butter and batter, which warranted a shower. Together, of course, to conserve water and touch one another’s slick bodies beneath a pitter-patter spray of hot water. “And ― and it can be like this always if you would call the wedding off, Harry.”

Harry’s body tenses, tightens with the strain of that knowledge, and one of Niall’s hands drifts down from his hair, rubs along his bare back, drawing circles and squares and hearts, tattooing Harry’s body with mindless doodles that will disappear as soon as he goes back to Lauren.

Lauren.

_Dammit._

Is it bad that he doesn’t feel guilty for what he’s doing in the least bit? Is it bad that he doesn’t feel ashamed of cheating on her with her beloved cousin? Is it bad that he won’t call off the wedding to guard her from further ridicule and embarrassment?

Of course it is.

But is it bad that Niall willingly partakes in everything he and Harry do behind Lauren’s back, gathered between the sheets of a flat she found for him so he could finally find the person he wanted to be? Is it bad that their friends all know of their traitorous deeds and refuse to say a thing to her for some reason or another? Is it bad that she looks at Harry and sees the world but he looks at her and sees total self-destruction and bittersweet content?

Of course it is. But nobody ever looks in the fine print of things; they prefer to believe what they can see and ignore what they must dig for because it’s easier, because it requires strain.

“I can’t do that,” Harry says, mouths the words against the shirt, against Niall’s chest. “I want to ― _so bad_ , baby ― but I can’t.”

“Why?” Niall’s question is gentle and sweet and careful, and the emotion behind it throttles Harry’s heart. “Why can’t you call off a wedding you and I both know shouldn’t be happening?”

“Because ―” There’s so much he needs to say; how is he going to put it all into words? “― everybody knows, Niall. My family, your family, my friends, your friends ― every single person we are and have ever been connected with know about Lauren proposing and the wedding, and they’re excited. They’re ready to see her and I married. My mum’s already purchased all the tickets to Mullingar, and dad and Robin have gotten their tuxes, too, and Gemma’s asked off from work a few extra days to spend it with us in Norway.”

Norway because that’s where he and Lauren have planned to honeymoon, and it’s a beautiful country, of course, with lots to offer, but Harry wants to go to India and see the colors and temples and visit with the people and taste a bit of the resplendent culture he’s so very fond of.  

“What does that have to do with anything, Harry? What does that have to do with us?”

“Everybody knows, and everybody’s preparing, and ― and if I were to call of the wedding now or tomorrow or at the alter right in front of everybody, they’d ask questions,” Harry replies, tries to explain to the best of his ability; his emotions are scrambled and his heart is a mess and he can’t find sense in anything except for Niall, Niall, Niall. “They’d want to know why, and I wouldn’t be able to lie to them. I’d look at you, and ― and with one look, they’d know.”

 “What would they know?”

Harry shuts his eyes tight, curls his fingers in the shirt more securely and sucks in a breath that only halfway settles his rising hysteria. “They’d know that you’re the reason I don’t love Lauren anymore,” he answers, screws his eyebrows together as he tries to bring voice to his muddled thoughts. “And ― and if they know, they’re gonna say things, and those things are prob’ly gonna be bad, and I can’t stand it if they say mean stuff about you when it isn’t your fault.”

Harry takes a deep breath, pauses his speech to gather his wits.

“You’re the reason, yes, but it’s not your fault you’re what made me fall out of love with Lauren. _It isn’t_ , and you and I both know that, but they’d think it was, and ― and they would _hurt_ you, Niall. They would say things and do things, and that would hurt you, and I don’t want to see you in pain. Ever.”

Niall’s fingers are an ever-there touch on Harry’s back, chilled a bit and stark against the warmth of his skin. “I’m in pain right now, Harry,” he says, whispers, and Harry squeezes his eyes so, so tight all he can see is black, black, black. There’s no color streaking across his lids because everything is draining the hues from his body. “I’m in pain right now because you won’t do what we both know needs to be done. You won’t tell Lauren the truth about us, and you won’t call off the wedding, either.”

“I ― I know,” Harry says, agrees, and his words are wobbling as they trip on his tongue. “I know we’re both in pain, but if everybody found out you’re the reason the wedding won’t happen, they’ll tear you down and rip you to shreds and… and I don’t want to see you hurt by the people you trust most. I can’t bear it if you’re hurting ‘cause of your family.”

Niall sighs. “They’ll say bad things about you, too, Harry.”

“I don’t matter.” Harry shrugs. “You’re the only one that matters in my mind.”

Niall’s fingers scratch at Harry’s back then, drag along the bumps of his spine, and he winces, draws himself away from Niall’s touch. “I can take care of myself, Harry,” Niall says, hisses. “I don’t need you to watch out for me. I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“I know.” Harry nods, opens his eyes and raises his head, putting his chin on top of Niall’s beating heart; Niall’s eyes are dark and sleepy, and Harry doesn’t know how late it is ― or early it is, for that matter ― but he knows they’ve missed out on a few important hours of sleep just to be with one another in this way. “I know that, but let me take care of you. Please let me take care of you, baby.”

Niall rolls his eyes, but there’s a tiny smile on his face, and his touch is tender once again. “You’re doing a pretty shitty job at that.”

Harry scoffs, curls his face up into a wolfish grin. “I know that, too.” He chuckles. “But nobody can fuck you like I do.”

“Harry.”

Harry giggles, puts his face down and hides his flush in Niall’s chest. “I’m selling the house, Niall,” he announces then, tries to steer the conversation away from the wicked turns it’s taken. “I’ve made an appointment to talk with the realtor Monday, and I’ve started to pack my things. It should be on the market by this time next week, if all goes well.”

“Why?”

“Am I selling it?”

Niall’s hand moves to Harry’s hair then, and he uses that as leverage to pull Harry up so their eyes can meet and hold and spark and bubble. “Yeah,” he says, quiet and soft, blinking slowly. “Why are you selling our house?”

Harry’s lips curl up into a small smile at the ‘our’. “Because it’s too big for me when you’re not there,” Harry answers, blinks. “And I reckon Lauren and I will have to move in together at one point or another. It’s kind of odd that we’ve not done that yet.” He shrugs. “I… I hope that’s okay with you.”

“As long as she won’t be living with you in our house, I don’t mind,” Niall says, and his smile grows, and Harry’s having to bite his lip to hold in a grin that’ll surely split his face in half.

“I ― I got curious and started looking at flats a few days ago, and I found a loft that’s up for rent,” Harry announces, and it’s a rush once he gets his bearings. “And it’s a short walk from the museum, but ― but I have my car and Lauren said something about you getting a car, too, even though you don’t have to ‘cause I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, and I was wondering if… if the wedding doesn’t happen and all goes well, I was wondering if you wanted to move in with me. It’s a bit bigger than this flat, and it’s sort of drafty, kinda, but we can fix that, and ― and I want you there with me because I can’t see either of us being without each other.”

Niall’s nose wrinkles and his brows furrow. “Harry ―”

“Just tell me there’s hope,” Harry interrupts, cuts Niall off quickly with a shake of his head. “Just tell me there’s hope for you and me to be happy.”

Niall thins his lips, gives Harry a murky look that reminds him of hidden darkness in the shadows. “Yeah, there’s hope,” he replies, nods his head, and the fire in Harry’s stomach is an explosion of pretty colors that ignites his entire body. “I love you, Harry. Of course there’s hope.” He smiles, pulls Harry up by his hair and puts their lips together in a kiss that screams, that yells, that hollers, that pounds and thunders and sings; Niall leans back, and his mouth is red and wet, and Harry knows his is, too, and that’s fine. That’s just _perfect_. “Now, let’s go watch the sun come up, yeah?”

-

Niall’s eyes are bright and big and sparkly, colored like whipping clouds and stormy skies and breaking waters with a baby blue tint, and they’re offset wholly by the rising sun, highlighting the bits of yellow and gold and green that swim through the pretty, pretty blue. The color of Niall’s eyes, as indefinable as it is, is Harry’s most favorite.

“How’d you know to come up here?” he asks Niall as they sit and lean against one another on the roof of the building; it’s cold and early, and London hasn’t come alive just yet, and the peacefulness reaches far beyond materialism. “It’s… It’s a bit dangerous, don’t you think?”

“To be up this high?” Niall asks, makes sure, and Harry nods, a bit unsteady as he leans against Niall’s shoulder for support. “Not really, no. I mean, if they didn’t want us to be up here, surely they’d put up a sign.”

“They did. It said ‘Roof: Don’t Walk Off, Please’.”

Niall laughs. “And Gracie showed me this place, by the way,” Niall continues. “It was right after I’d moved in, and I was about to lose my mind, and so she brought me up here to calm me down. We’re away from everything and everybody, and it’s easy to clear your head when nobody’s screaming at you.”

Harry gulps, grapples for Niall’s hand and interlaces their fingers. “It’s ― it’s pretty up here,” he says, and it is. They’re up so, so high, and London is spread out before them, painted in glittering sunshine that sparkles off the wet glass down below; the wind is crisp and fresh and raw, and there’s snow in the air, too, and it’s cold, kind of, but they’re cuddled close and hidden beneath the thick blanket they snuck up here. “It’s nice. It’s kind of like paradise.”

“I’m scared, Harry.”

_Okay._

“What are you afraid of?” he asks Niall, slanting his head to the side. Niall’s face is painted with bumps and small pimples and patchy hair on his cheeks, and the skin above his upper lip is smooth and shaved, so soft-looking that Harry wants to kiss it for days on end.

Niall gulps, turning away from Harry’s inquisitive gaze and staring out at the sun as it flirts with the horizon, dipping just beneath the dark trees in the distance. “I’m scared of what I want,” he replies in a gentle whisper, licking his dry lips, and Harry does, too, because he doesn’t like the way Niall’s words feel in the air. “I’m terrified about wanting something that I don’t think I deserve because it’s only going to hurt the people I care about.”

“What do you want, Ni?” he prompts, moving a bit closer to Niall on the small space of hard roof they’re sharing, and they’re so close now that they’re practically one. “Do you want me?”

“Yes.”

Wow _._ Even though Harry already knew it ― _wow_.

The blue shirt Niall’s wearing magnifies the pink blush that colors his cheeks, and Harry realizes how much he really, really likes crimson and cerulean on Niall. It’ll surely make a good color scheme at their wedding.

“So you’re afraid of me?” His voice is a squeak, heavy with pain and laden with confusion, and it hurts Harry’s heart because he’s hurting Niall, and that’s not his intention at all. “What have I done to make you scared of me?”

Niall shakes his head adamantly, fiercely. “No,” he replies. “I’m not afraid of you, Harry. You’re too sweet and kind and loving to ever scare me, even though you piss me off like no other person on this planet. I don’t think anybody’s capable of ever feeling fear when they’re looking at you.”

“Then why ―”

“I’m afraid of the way you make me feel,” Niall interrupts, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply, feigning calm; Harry’s fingertips are tingling as everything is laid out in the open. “It’s almost like you can eat me alive. I’ve never felt this way with somebody before. I… I love you, and that scares me.”

“Well, considering there hasn’t been an outbreak of infection and I’m still breathing,” Harry begins on a husky laugh that’s more of a relieved puff of air than anything, “I don’t see that happening. Me eating you alive, I mean. Eating you out? Sure; that’s fun and I’m sure we’d both enjoy it.”

“Harry.”

“But as for me eating you alive? That’ll never happen.” Harry cackles softly against Niall’s skin at his nasty, dry joke. “The way you make me feel, Ni? Scares me too. Half the time I don’t know what to do with the emotions you make me feel. You drive me crazy.”

He’s telling the truth ― Niall scares Harry just as much as he excites Harry, makes Harry feel loved and cared for and cherished, colors Harry’s world with sunshine and cerulean and forest, shading his life with an opulence of hues and mixtures. Niall’s darkness, but he’s also the light that chases the black away, and it’s weird, really, because Harry never thought he could fall in love with the same person who drives him avidly insane.

Harry never thought he’d fall in love with his best friend.

It’s honestly the scariest thing Harry’s ever felt ― because Niall’s seen him naked, yes, plenty of times, but Niall’s never seen him actually _naked_ , open and bare and raw and palpable, revealing everything that’s hidden deep within.

Sometimes that’s good, but other times it’s horrible and sad and depressing. And it’s very, very frightening, in all honesty, gathering the courage and strength to open himself up in the same way that Niall has to him.

Niall is his hero, a true legend in the face of all humans. Harry adores Niall.

Between their pressing bodies, Niall’s palm is warm, and his thumb draws the sweetest, most random circles on Harry’s knuckles. Harry’s fluffy head falls on Niall’s shoulder, curly hair tickling Niall’s cheek as he yawns before nosing his face into Niall’s neck, pressing a quick kiss to the delicate skin that’s suckled with hickies that no amount of shower water can wash away. 

“But is that okay?” Niall asks, voice rising with hysteria. “Is it okay that you scare me and I drive you crazy?”

Harry shrugs, shaking Niall’s body with the movement. “It feels really good, so I don’t think it can be bad.”

“And people? Our friends and family and Lauren? How are they going to react to us and what we’ve done?”

“Just forget about that,” Harry answers; he’s not got a clue, and he isn’t looking for one, either. “Nobody else matters but you and me, Ni. It’s us in this, not them, or our parents or our mates or Lauren. It’s you and me, and we don’t have to be accepted, but we will be respected. I’ll make sure of it. But… but they don’t have to know. We don’t have to tell them if we don’t want to.”

Niall nods, but his bottom lop is quivering against Harry’s temple and Harry’s fingertips are still trembling. “You know they’re going to say we’re bad for each other, Harry, even if we don’t tell them.”

Harry nods, raising his head up from Niall’s shoulder, smiling gently, carefully. “Maybe, but I don’t think we’re good for anyone else,” he says, easing Niall’s anxiety, before leaning down and pressing his mouth to the tip of Niall’s nose, which makes Niall’s brows furrow and a giggle to erupt from his lip that’s echoed by Harry’s light laugh. “And ― and you’ve waited for me to touch you and be with you, and I’ve not been with another male before, so it doesn’t matter what they say or think. You and I? We’re the best, and they can’t bring us down.”

No, they can’t bring them down, but Harry can.

 


	39. thirty-nine

When Lauren told Niall on his first day of work as he was getting out of her car that they were planning on leaving the night of the fourth of February on a plane to Ireland for the wedding, he didn’t realize she actually meant _nighttime_.

They were supposed to have already taken off from the airport two hours before midnight, having booked the last flight possible because Harry conveniently forgot to gather and pack (he didn’t forget, though, because he spent the night he was supposed to be packing texting Niall into the wee hours of the morning, telling stupid jokes and reminiscing the good memories they had with one another before everything turned into a large mess “just to have something to hold on to during the day so I can smile”, as he claimed, which melted Niall’s heart completely, and the best excuse the both of them could come up with was that preparing just skipped out of Harry’s mind from the excitement of his impending nuptials) his things for the trip; now, however, they’re stuck in the deserted, cold terminal till two in the morning because of a delay nobody saw coming, and they’re spread out like hot pink sparkles blown through a fan, landing on a thick-set cream-colored carpet ― a few are here, some are there, but most are over in that corner even though Zayn’s the odd one out, curled up in the middle of the waiting area like he owns the fucking place with a blanket and pillow for added measure.

They’ve spent enough time here for Niall to feel as if they ought to own at least half of the airline chain.

He isn’t surprised, though, that Lauren didn’t specify the time of the flight ― “We’re leaving the night of the fourth of February; be ready because the next plane to Ireland will be a ride you buy yourself!” ― or remind everybody at how easily flights from London to Mullingar tend to be delayed because of the close proximity of the two places; San Fransisco and New York City and Atlanta and Tulsa and Salt Lake City and Seattle seem to be a little bit more important than a flight that’s roughly an hour in duration to a neighboring country.  

She’s been bustling about quite a bit lately, getting everything ready as much as she can for Ireland when she’s in another country, when she’s too far away to hug her mum for ordering the flowers so they have enough to mature, to flourish into pretty bloom and have a chilled glass of beer with her dad after a long day at work, at picking out decorations and deciding what table headers go where, and Niall knows that her job at the bank has been feeding her a bout of too-much stress and not enough sleep that’s made her more apt to snap at anybody for the littlest of things.

He feels sorry for her, in more ways than one.

He doesn’t mind her touchiness, really; after all, he and Lauren are cousins, are knit together and bound by the blood they share, and he’s long since gotten used to her abrupt outbursts of temper. The two of them were kicked out of Greg’s graduation for dancing on the chairs, and when they were threatened to be taken in by the school’s security guard, they stayed with one another and watched each other’s backs. He can’t fault her for taking a few moments to have a bad attitude in this situation.

It must be hard planning a wedding all by yourself, anyway.

It’s okay, though. Being up late ― so late that the stars have tucked in for the night, blanketed by clouds filled with lullabies of snow that’s sure to rain down with the same amount of gentleness Louis has in his voice as he’s singing to Kamryn’s feisty bump to calm the ferocious baby girl inside who tends to come alive at night like lightning bugs in the fields of Ireland when the weather warms ― is something Niall’s gotten used to over the last few months. After all, Harry has a way of keeping Niall up all night, filling Niall’s night dreams with hot kisses and wild sweats and sticky touches and tender words and giggly smiles and toe-curling orgasms and groundbreaking admittances that will secure their happiness with one another though not their satisfaction with their friends and family should his visions come true.  

He sees where Harry’s coming from, understands why Harry refuses to call off the wedding, why Harry continuously tells Niall no when he asks, when he begs, when he pleads with Harry to give Lauren the ring back, to tell her that he doesn’t love her anymore, to end an eloping neither of them want to happen, neither of them see lasting.

Niall understands it, yes, but that doesn’t mean he agrees with Harry’s thought process, with Harry’s twisted reasoning, with Harry’s common sense ― or lack thereof, to be completely honest. Harry’s in a tight spot, and he isn’t getting the aid or support or acceptance that Niall has been and is still continuing to receive from the people around them, and ― and that’s _not_ _fair_ , but Niall’s trying his best to be everything that Harry needs, and it isn’t working.

It isn’t working because they’re not going to be able to work if Harry says ‘I do’ in less than three days.

_Fuck._

It all just seems so, so real now. Lauren’s got them all gathered up ― herself, Niall, Harry, Louis, Zayn, Liam, Kamryn, and Grace; the others are set to fly in on the evening of the sixth or the morning of the seventh, and Gemma’s to meet them in Mullingar sometime tomorrow, Niall thinks ― for a long weekend away, and… and there’s no backing out now.

The dresses have been bought, the tuxes have been purchases, the bags have been packed, the tickets have been handed over, the plans have been made, and ― and there’s no turning back.

_There’s no turning back now._

Harry’s stated that he can’t, that he won’t call off the wedding over and over and over, again and again and again, relentless and insistent and archaically ferocious, and Niall believes him a little bit more each time the words fall out of his kissed-red lips ― but he didn’t say Niall couldn’t object to the wedding, didn’t say Niall couldn’t let Lauren in on the mess that’s been going on beneath her nose for a few months now.

Harry never asked Niall to allow the wedding to proceed, and ― and Harry’s been telling Niall that for a long, long time, you know, prompting for him to stand up, to say something, and he’s only just now realizing it.

He bets Harry’s only just now realizing it, too.

And ― and he may, you know. Call the wedding off himself, that is. Niall may walk up to Lauren and break the news to her slowly, gently, and he’ll be careful with his word choice and how he explains things, too: he’ll tell her of the first time he met Harry, tell her of how he immediately felt a tiny spark of recognition for the oppressive amount of affection he would bestow upon Harry, he’ll tell her of the moment he fell in love with Harry, he’ll tell her of the waiting, he’ll tell her of the moment of ‘Oh, you’re the one. Not right now, and not tomorrow or the next day, probably, but you’re the one for me, and I don’t want anybody else.’

He’ll tell her of the secrets they’ve shared and the laughs they’ve had and the memories they’ve made; he’ll tell her how much it hurt when she all but stole Harry out of his grasp, and he’ll tell her how her relationship with his favorite person in the entire world made him physically sick to the point where he would rather vomit up what little food he ate in favor of being around them as they showed affection toward one another.

He’ll tell her of Harry’s kisses, of Harry’s possessiveness, of Harry’s impatience to claim Niall as his; he’ll tell her of Harry’s strive, of Harry’s insatiable craving for everybody to be happy, happy, happy even though he won’t be content in the least. He’ll tell her of the nights they’ve spent with one another doing things they should not have been, tangled between the sheets with one another’s bodies and lying to the world around them and forgetting about her in the same way Harry’s forgotten about Niall so many times before ― he’ll tell her of the way Harry’s led him on and gave him hope and crushed everything only to rebuild it back better than it once was before, over and again.

He’ll tell her that Harry’s in love with him, not her.

He’ll break her heart.

But he isn’t. Niall doesn’t think Harry’s in love with him― not yet, at least, if he ever will be. Harry cares a lot more for Niall romantically than he does her, though, and that’s something neither of them can deny.

He’ll also tell her of the independence and strength and will and determination and yellow joy he was able to found with the help of their relationship, of her persistence for him to move out and get a job and learn how to be an adult; he’ll tell her that he wouldn’t have been able to move on and make a life for himself had it not been for the way she kissed Harry right in front of him, for the way she touched Harry and cuddled Harry and talked with Harry and fell in love with Harry right in front of him. He’ll thank her, over and over and over, for being the push he never knew he needed.

And he’ll offer her his shoulder, be her rock as she cries and swears and curses Harry for being disloyal, for being unfaithful, for being a liar ― because, at the end of the day, it isn’t Niall’s fault Harry’s cheating, isn’t Niall’s fault Harry has fallen out of love with the girl he promised he would be with forever.

That all belongs to Harry, just like both Niall and Lauren’s heart does.

The thing is, though, Harry still doesn’t understand the effect he has on Niall and Lauren. After years of giggles and drunk memories and studious dates filled with cheesy pizza and bubbly ale and sneaking into each other’s rooms at night when the other can’t sleep and dark mornings spent telling stupid jokes and hidden secrets; after months of promises and touches and swears and kisses and hugs, Harry still doesn’t know.

He just doesn’t know.

And he probably won’t. Harry tends to not believe good things about himself, usually focuses on the bad and the mean and the ripped edges of his personality, of who he is.

Niall just wants Harry to know that he’s a still a king in his eyes, no matter what. If Harry does indeed marry Lauren, he’ll still be Niall’s king.

“Hey, baby. Wake up, pretty boy.” There’s a voice that cuts through Niall’s fuzzy day dreams as he’s laid out on a few of the chairs; a hand on his shoulder, firm and secure as it shakes him awake, causes his eyes to open blearily, blurrily, and he blinks, looking up at his king as he’s before Niall, backlit by the dim fluorescents above. “It’s time to get on the plane. We’re to board in thirty minutes and we have to find the gate.”

 _Oh_.

Niall sits up, balls his hands into fists and brings them up to rub at the sleep in his eyes. “What ― what time is it, Harry?” he asks, moves his shoulders backward and pops the knots in his spine and straightens his discs. He’s sleepy and uncomfortable, and the stiff pain in his heart is a knife that keeps on being twisted and twisted and twisted.

Harry’s kneeled in front of Niall, dressed warmly in his infamous black overcoat with a gray sweater beneath and black jeans tucked into the same scuffed brown boots he graduated university in; his eyes are large, colored gray and green and blue, and his hair is pulled back in a half-bun that reminds Niall of the first time Harry started experimenting with styles a few years back. And the smile on Harry’s face is too pretty to put into words, really.  

“It’s four in the morning.” Harry offers Niall a careful smile, slanting his head to the side as his other hand reaches out and tickles at the hole in Niall’s jeans, caressing his kneecap. “Sorry, baby. You slept for a while, I think, but you can go back to bed on the plane.”

Niall sighs, screws his nose up into a wrinkled expression. “I thought we were leaving last night,” he points out, doesn’t even try to hide the malicious venom in his voice; if Lauren’s allowed to have an attitude, so is he, and Harry has no right to get angry about it, either. He’s part of the reason Niall’s so nasty sometimes. “A six hour delay in time isn’t the best way to start off a weekend away, I don’t think.”

Harry shrugs, scratches his nails on Niall’s knee and stands to his full height; he uses the hand that’s on Niall’s shoulder to tug him up, and they’re standing beside one another now, chest-to-chest and face-to-face and heart-to-heart, and Harry’s breath smells like mint and orange juice and the shivers that are dancing along Niall’s skin aren’t from the chill of the airport terminal.

It’s Harry. It’s always ― _always_ ― Harry.

Does Harry even know that? Has that even registered in his mind?

He can do whatever he wants to, and if he asks Niall for forgiveness, Niall will give it to him. Always.

“Sit by me on the plane, okay?” Harry says, whispers, and his eyes are wide and his fingers are tight as they move over and wind through the tuft of Niall’s hair where it curls against his neck. He tugs a bit, lifts Niall’s chin and their lips brush in a hot kiss that’s easily seen by those surrounding him. “Please sit by me. I ― I can’t stay by Lauren for so long knowing you’re where I need to be.”

Harry’s asking Niall to come to him, to save his soul in a way only Niall can now. Wow.  

Niall wets his lips, looks out of the corner of his eye to see that Lauren is facing away from them, thankfully, too busy helping Grace and Kamryn gather all the bags that are strewn out as Louis and Liam rouse Zayn into a semi-conscious state of awareness.

He turns back to Harry, nods his head. “Okay,” he says, smiles, and Harry leans forward, puts his lips to Niall’s nose in a gentle kiss that makes the shivers on Niall’s body turn to gooseflesh with nerve endings that are magnified tenfold. He’ll give Harry anything ― _anything_ ― if he asked it of him. And that’s _bad_. “I’ll sit next to you.”

They pull away then ― disentangle from a grasp that goes far beyond the simplicity of physical touch ― and grab their things, offering to help with carrying Kamryn’s luggage to keep her from overexerting herself as they haul their own bags over their shoulders. She’s about to burst, it looks, and though her doctor cleared her for a flight to Ireland and back as long as she gets enough rest and eats healthily and takes her vitamins, everybody still worries over her.

They can’t help it. She’s family, in a way, and she’s carrying the newest edition to their ever-growing clan.

“I’m fine, boys,” she declines politely, smiling hugely and giving both Niall and Harry a hug that’s a bit awkward with her rather large bump, and she smells like pineapples and baby shampoo. “You two princes don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll be just fine.”

She walks away then, loops one arm through Lauren’s and the other with Grace’s, and they stride forward, oddly glowing with a sunshine-like brilliance that reminds Niall of elegant queens even at four in the morning with little sleep as they chuckle and gush with excitement about the wedding, and Louis and Liam and Zayn fall in line right behind them like regimental soldiers, stumbling and groaning and cursing as they sip at hot coffee that burns their lips and wakes up their mind.

And Niall and Harry?

Well, they’re in the back, bringing up the rear, holding hands like two rebels with a cause, and Niall’s praying to whatever deity chooses to listen that the tiny, adorable kiss Harry gave his nose moments before won’t be their last.

-

Niall cups his hands and catches chilly water in his palms; he shuts his eyes, splashes the liquid onto his face, and it’s a cold flash that serves to shock his body a bit more awake than he was before. They’ve been on the plane for a good forty-five minutes, and the pilot announced not long ago that they would be landing in Mullingar in another thirty if all goes according to plan.

He hopes so. He’s not been able to sleep since he boarded, since Lauren asked him to switch her seats so she could sit next to Harry and Niall could stay with Grace a row behind. He promised Harry he’d sit next to him, and ― and the look on Harry’s face when Niall nodded his acquiescence to Lauren’s question, when Niall pushed himself to stand and move over so Lauren could squeeze in and take the seat next to her future husband pierced Niall’s heart, hit him so hard in the chest that he isn’t sure he’ll be able to breathe properly for years to come.

Harry just looks so broken, so defeated, so exhausted and out of it and at the end of his rope, at the end of the line in whatever path he’s walking on, and how Lauren isn’t noticing Harry’s complete lack of lustering enthusiasm and effulgent delectation of their wedding is beyond Niall’s comprehension because it’s so easy to see.

_It’s so easy to see._

Harry’s eyes are empty and his fingers haven’t stopped shaking for weeks and his smile doesn’t light up his face in the same way it used to and the colors of his hear aren’t as bright as they are when he’s around Niall; his sentences are clipped and his temper is saturated with unhappiness and his laughter is a spent echo in the impending darkness of his future and there’s a blackness about his personality that scares Niall to death.

Harry is not happy, and Lauren is, and Niall’s on his way to being content with his life and the world and how everything’s playing out, and ― and they’re taking Harry’s joy, taking Harry’s serenity, but he’s giving it to them, _pleading_ for them to take it, take it, take it, and neither Niall nor Lauren can tell Harry no because they’re so fucking in love with him it’s unhealthy.

Lauren doesn’t realize what she’s doing, though, has no idea that she’s a proverbial leech that’s thieving Harry’s happiness, that’s thriving off of his desolate deficiency of content and serenity.

And ― and how can she not see that she’s taking Harry’s light, that she’s ripping Harry to shreds? How can she not open her eyes and _see_?

There’s a knock on the restroom door then, and Niall grabs at the stack of paper towels, ignores the ghostly man looking back at him in the mirror and balls a few in his hands and wipes at the water on his face as he moves over and flips the lock, allowing the door to slide open and reveal Harry.

And his eyes are red and his hair is a mess that’s still tied back in a half-bun and his overcoat has been shed and his gray hoodie is crooked across his chest and his cheeks are pink, pink, pink ― and Niall reaches for him as if they’ll both otherwise be blown away from the gale force of the situation if they aren’t touching, jerks him into the restroom by his wrist, shutting the door and turning the lock and slamming Harry against the wall with a gentleness he isn’t sure either of them deserve.

Harry sniffles, and Niall’s body prickles with the heated need to comfort his king. “Lauren’s asleep,” he announces, and his voice is stressed and wet and Niall nods, presses his lips together in a thin line as he steps deeper into Harry’s forbidden space, into Harry’s uncharted kingdom. “They’re all asleep, actually, except for Grace and Louis, but they aren’t really paying attention, anyway. Louis is rubbing Kam’s tummy ‘cause the baby won’t quit giving her aches and Grace is coloring in a book she bought at the airport and Liam is snoring and Zayn’s music is too loud and I felt so alone and you were taking a while and I ― I didn’t know. I didn’t know ― I _don’t_ know.”

He’s rambling. He’s rambling, and he’s simultaneously adorable and frightening when he’s flustered, when he’s in need of Niall; he’s vulnerable and his chest is spread open and his heart is on his sleeve, held in his hand as the thud-thud-thud of the healthy organ dims, and Niall’s the only one with enough care, with enough patience and tenderness and love to put it back inside Harry’s body and stitch him together delicately, securely.

Again and again and again.

 _Always_.

“Sorry, H,” Niall says, apologizes, turns his face away from the bright light in favor of meeting Harry’s red-rimmed eyes. “I just had to use the toilet and splash water on my face to wake myself up, is all. Wanna talk about it? What’s making you lonely, I mean. We’ve got a bit before the plane lands, and every second counts, I think.”

Harry shakes his head, tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and lets out a whimper that echoes in the restroom as if they’re the only two in an enclosed arena full of speakers. He’s so broken and cracked and splintered that he’s pretending everything is going to be okay when it surely isn’t.

“Not really, no,” he replies, brings his hand up and puts his thumb in his mouth, nibbling on the fresh skin there that’s already scabbed over from his abuse; Niall wants to tell him to stop, to quit hurting himself, but he doesn’t ― he doesn’t because he has no right to give Harry orders when he’s a grown man. “What’s keeping you up, baby? Why aren’t you sleeping? I thought for sure you’d sleep the whole trip since you didn’t get a lot of rest at the airport.”

Niall shrugs, presses his chest against Harry’s slowly, softly, and they’re two puzzle pieces that fit so perfectly together at that moment, and it’s easy to believe why they held out so long for one another.

_They fit._

They fit, and nobody else’s edges and curves and rolls and angles and plains and lines can mold to one another as well as they can each other’s. Niall’s of a mind that perfection is fake, that it’s simply propaganda created by society to sell products and keep their heads afloat in the whipping hurricane of the world that’s fueled by misled people, but, when he’s in Harry’s arms and he can feel their heart rhythms match up and listen to the way Harry’s breath rattles in his chest as he sucks in air, he knows he’s wrong.

Perfection is real, and it can only be found inside of Harry’s arms.

“What isn’t keeping me up, Harry?” Niall asks, scoffs a laugh as he puts his hand to Harry’s neck, bending him forward so his lips are pressed to the hollow of Niall’s throat and they’re connected as intimately as they can be with one another at the moment. “I mean, we’re on our way to Ireland so you can marry my cousin, and I’m your best man and I need to find a damn car still, and I love you. I’m still in love with you. There’s so many things keeping me up and giving me nightmares.”

“And it’s all me. It’s all my fault.”

Niall flinches, backs up till he’s pressed against the opposite wall and Harry’s a fractured, cradled doll in his arms as he soothes the tender soul in hopes of helping to mend what’s been broken. “I never said that,” he says, hisses in a whisper; Harry’s so messed up, so brainwashed and tired that he thinks Niall blames him for everything when he can’t be further from the truth. “I never said that, Harry.”

“It was implied, though, wasn’t it?” Harry retorts, shrugs, and Niall’s silence is answer enough for him, it seems, because he drags in a shaky breath and jumps onto the next topic before Niall can even form a rebuttal. “You can stop it, you know. The wedding, I mean ― you can stop it if you want to. I… I won’t be mad if you do.”

“’Cause you’re too strong to stop it?”

Harry shakes his head, and his half-bun is a flower that clinches Niall’s air. “’Cause I’m too weak to tell her no,” he corrects. “’Cause I’m too weak to deal with all of the backlash I know it’s going to bring on. I ― I just want everybody to be happy.”

Niall sighs, brings his hand up and takes out the sloppy bun; he puts the elastic band around his wrist, runs his fingers through Harry’s snarled hair and combs out the tangles as best as he can. “I know that,” he says, whispers, tugs Harry’s face up so their eyes can meet, and it’s ocean and forest, and all Niall can think of is hurricanes and snapped trees that’s bleeding dry sap from the force of the buffeting water. “But your happiness matters, too, Harry. You deserve to be happy just as much as Lauren and I do.”

Harry smiles, shrugs. “You are my happiness, Niall,” he replies, blinks his eyes slow, slow, slow as he leans in. “And if you’re happy, baby, I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.”

He catches Niall’s lips then, licks at the seam and snakes his tongue inside, and Niall sighs, tips his head back against the wall and allows Harry to cup his cheeks, to rub at the lavender-colored skin below his eyes, to pour his heart out in the only way he seems to know how.

They kiss. They kiss and kiss and kiss, and whisper and touch and moan and lick and gasp and bask in one another’s glory, and kiss and kiss and kiss some more till the pilot is announcing that everybody needs to buckle before they descend, till they’re forced out of the restroom with red lips and needy fingers and crooked clothing and tight underwear and breathless chests.

And when Lauren asks where they were, why they were gone so long, Niall just looks at Harry and says, with a sickly-sweet smile that burns to the bone, “My zipper got caught, Lauren, and I needed some help getting it unstuck, and Harry was the only one awake. No worries.”

 


	40. forty

“Get out of the way, get out of the way, get out of the way!”

Harry’s shoulder is pushed as he steps to the side, bouncing off of Kamryn’s back as Niall and Lauren nearly fall to the ground and Zayn and Liam and Grace let out a round of curses that echo in the chilly dawn air; he wraps an arm around Kamryn’s waist, pulls her close in the duskiness of the early-morning light to keep both of them semi balanced so they don’t fall over on the icy walkway.

Louis is a bit away, bent over behind what looks to be like a trash bin that has a leafy tree stationed right behind it; his face is shoved between his knees and he’s hurling, vomiting, howling as he retches onto the ground.

They’ll just wait on him, it seems; they have to stand around till their luggage arrives, anyway.

Harry winces, tightens his body and flinches as their cranky group stops and waits for Louis to calm down; puking is something that unsettles Harry’s tummy, that tickles at his abdomen, and he’s just glad Louis thought of hiding himself away to hurl so Harry ― and a few others, as well; Lauren’s stomach is tender, too, as is Liam and Zayn’s ― doesn’t get sick, either.

Harry just wishes Louis could have held it in till they reached the restroom; he doesn’t envy the person who’s going to find a puddle of vomit in a plant.

 _Yuck_.

“Are you sure you’re the one that’s pregnant?” Harry asks Kamryn, looks down at her flushed face with a smile as she grapples to take hold of his hand. “He’s always puking, love; he’s been more sick this pregnancy than you have, Kam.”

She laughs, tosses her head back and lays her cheeks on Harry’s shoulder as chuckles quake her body. “You know, I’ve been thinking that very same thing for a while now,” she replies, and Harry’s happy that he could make somebody laugh. He’s messed up so much, and the fact that he can still bring a smile to somebody’s face without having to lie, without having to crush a bridge of connecting emotions kind of makes him feel a little bit better about himself. “His stomach is just so sensitive ― in fact, a few days ago, I was baking a pan of cheesy spaghetti because I had been craving it all day, and it upset his stomach, and he made me throw the dish outside before he got sick.”

Harry frowns. “But I love your cheesy spaghetti,” Harry whines, purses his and gives Kamryn a wobbly grin. There’s nobody he knows that can bake spaghetti quite like her. “You should’ve called me and I’d have come pick you up, and you and I could’ve enjoyed the whole thing ourselves.”

Her smile is full of warmth and sunshine, and it takes Harry’s mind off of a bit of the raging storm that’s billowing harshly inside of his mind, inside of his body, inside of his heart. He wants Niall, and he has Niall, to a certain degree ― but here he is, with all of his friends and family on the way, and Lauren’s, too, preparing to get married a girl who doesn’t deserve a liar and a cheater, who doesn’t deserve to be in a loveless marriage with a man who can never be able to give her what she so rightfully needs, what the so relentlessly wants.

Harry isn’t the type of person who can make somebody else happy without causing too many problems for himself, for others.

The thing is, somebody’s always going to get hurt, and Harry has a complex about himself where he can’t stand to see someone heartbroken, so he’ll gladly take on their weight if it means they’ll smile for a little while.  

He can’t say no, though, won’t humiliate Lauren by calling the wedding off now, when it’s to happen in a few days ― but Niall can, and it isn’t fair for Harry to push off all of that worry on him, no, but Niall is Harry’s rock, is one of the only people that has been there for Harry through everything, and Harry doesn’t have the strength or the will inside of himself to do anything.

Which doesn’t make any sense, really.  

What the fuck is he doing?

But ― but Niall can say no. Niall will say no. Niall is going to say no.

He can, and he will, and he is. Isn’t he?

Harry hopes so. Harry really, really hopes so because ― because he wants to be happy, too, and he deserves it just as much as everybody else, and he can only be happy with Niall. Niall is the only person in the whole entire world who can deliver Harry the happiness he wants so, so, so bad.

Because Niall’s been there, been here ― he’s stood beside Harry in times of weakness, in times of anger, in times of sadness, in times of joy. He’s seen Harry at his worst, helped Harry pick the glass out of his knuckles; he’s seen Harry at his best, gave Harry the biggest grin when Harry walked across the stage and took his hard-earned diploma.

Niall’s been there, and Harry wants Niall to continue to be here with him, forever and ever ― and ever and ever and ever.

And ― and he kind of thinks Niall wants that, too.

“I know you do, and if I’d have thought about you I would’ve rang and went off to eat the spaghetti.” She nudges his shoulder; they’ve been friends for about as long as her and Louis, and she’s just another sister to Harry, really ― he’ll never feel any sort of romantic notions toward her, and she knows he won’t ever think of him in that way, either. “I don’t know how he’s going to be able to handle a baby. Raleigh Elaine is going to drive her daddy mad when she gets here, I just know it.”

Harry smiles. “Raleigh Elaine?” he asks, tests the name out on his tongue; it fits, he thinks, and he likes it, though his opinion really doesn’t matter in this situation. Raleigh Elaine Tomlinson ― Harry just hopes she won’t be as wild as her daddy is, but he knows she will be, and he doesn’t care because he’ll love her anyway. “That’s a very pretty name.”

Kamryn beams. “Thank you,” she says, fawns, and her cheeks are red and there’s light lavender-colored bags beneath her eyes but she looks happy, so happy ― she’s exhausted and large and swollen and stressed, probably, but she looks too elated to cause worry from anybody. “Speaking of babies, are you and Lauren planning on waiting to have children? Or are the two of you going to try as soon as the honeymoon starts?”

 _Oh_. Harry’s going to be expected to have children with Lauren, isn’t he? Oh.

Oh, _bloody fuck._ How could he have let that, of all things, slip his mind?

“I ― um ―” he tries, trails off, shrugs; there’s so much going on in his mind at the moment, and they’ve stopped to wait on Louis to empty his stomach in an innocent plant that never asked to be abused, and Niall and Lauren are stood behind Kamryn and Harry, and Harry knows Niall heard the questions Kamryn asked him, and he looks over his shoulder, sees that Niall is giving him a sympathetic, broken look, and he can’t do it. He just fucking can’t do it, okay? “I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

When ― because he can’t say if, can’t give Lauren any reason to doubt him now that they’re already in Ireland. He doesn’t want to break her heart.

He doesn’t want to break her heart, no, but he’s going to allow Niall to, isn’t he? In fact, he wants Niall to break her heart, doesn’t he?

Wow.

Just how fucked up is he to think that it’s okay for somebody to take the fall for something that’s clearly his fault? 

He needs help. He needs a lot of help, and ― and his mother’s neighbor is a counsellor for troubled youths, Harry thinks, and she probably knows of someone he can go to talk to.

He hopes, at least. He needs to talk to _somebody_.  

“Imagine a little kid of your own running ‘round, though,” Kamryn says, continuing to feed into the notion that Harry and Lauren are going to have children together. “A tiny girl with your hair and Lauren’s eyes ― or a darling boy with dimples and chubby cheeks! Raleigh needs a playmate, Harry; I grew up without any cousins or siblings, and while I liked it at times, it was awful lonely.”

Harry grits his teeth; if she’s so worried about her child being lonely, why doesn’t she just have another kid to go along with this one? It’s not like her and Louis are going to wind up with anybody else but each other ― the least they can do is confirm their relationship and start a family with one another, complete with a whole litter of kids with Kamryn’s heart and Louis’s attitude.

He doesn’t want to have children with Lauren, though, doesn’t want to try and try and try and try deep into the wee hours of morning, doesn’t want to hug her close when the test is positive or rub her feet when she’s aching or make midnight runs to the market when she’s craving something strange or talk to her tummy as the bump grows or be subject to reading parenting books along with her as support or hold her hand when she’s pushing the baby out or cry with her when they’re left alone in the hospital room with their newborn baby in their arms.

He doesn’t want to imagine a little girl with blue eyes and brown hair who loves football, doesn’t want to imagine a darling boy with dimples and chubby cheeks who likes to play with dolls, doesn’t want to imagine chasing after the tiny rascals as they race across the back lawn of whatever suburban home he and Lauren have been predicted to purchase, doesn’t want to make memories with the cute monsters in the early mornings when they’re trying their best to be silent as they possibly can while cooking up a breakfast for mummy before she has to go to work.

He doesn’t want that ― he doesn’t want to have kids at all.

Unless they’re with Niall, that is. _Only_ Niall.

And ― and he knows, you know, that it’s impossible for him to father a child with another male, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t mind adopting, doesn’t mind going out and finding a little baby ― or two or three or four or five, seeing as he wants a large family and he knows Niall does, too, because they’ve both come from large clans ― to call _his_ own, to call _their_ own.

It doesn’t matter that they won’t be blood, doesn’t matter that he and Niall weren’t there when they were born, doesn’t matter that they won’t have come from his and Niall’s loins ― what matters is that they’re loved, is that they know they’re loved, is that they know they’ll always be loved even when they’re down, even when they’re up, even when they’re at a standstill in their lives.

Love is thicker than blood ever will be.

And it’s okay if Niall doesn’t want kids, too. Harry just wants Niall, and ― and he doesn’t need kids, doesn’t need a big home in a welcoming neighborhood, doesn’t need an extravagant life or fancy car or large circle of friends or name-brand clothes, doesn’t need a little girl who loves football or a darling boy who likes playing with dolls or a whole family of mismatched little kids to be happy.

All he needs is Niall, Niall, _Niall_.

He has to call off the wedding first, though, and ― and he just may have to. Call off the wedding himself, that is. He’s scared to death and so, so sorry for everything he’s put Niall and Lauren through, for everything that he’s going to be putting Niall and Lauren through, and it’s taken too much time for him to realize his mistake, but he may have to be the one to call the wedding off.

He may have to do it if Niall doesn’t, if Niall refuses to, if Niall isn’t selfish enough to take Lauren’s happiness away so he can finally ― finally ― be with Harry without having to lie all the time.

And that’s a fright, too ― what if Niall isn’t as invested in Harry as Harry is in him?

But that’s absurd, really; of course Niall loves Harry just as much as Harry loves Niall. Of course he does. They wouldn’t have been able to stay together through this mess if the love Niall felt for Harry wasn’t real ― of course it’s real. It has to be real.

Because, if it isn’t, what’s the point? What’s the point in _anything_? 

“Speaking of babies,” Harry begins, tries to steer the subject away from his possible children because he doesn’t want to have to lie more than he already has, “how was the flight, Kamryn? Not too much, I hope. Everything was all right, yeah?”

She nods her head, pulls away from Harry as Louis saunters back over; she digs in her large purse, pulls out a wrinkled handkerchief and a bottle of water and gives it to Louis to wipe his face and wash the nasty taste out of his month, and the way they’re so tuned into one another reminds Harry of how he and Niall are with each other.

And that’s love, you know ― Harry and Niall are in love, and Louis and Kamryn are in love, too, and maybe they can have a double wedding.

 _Ha_.

“It was fine,” she replies, presses herself against Louis’s side as he pulls her close. “Raleigh was a little bugger, but she’s settled now, and I think she already loves her daddy’s voice because he’s the only one who can calm her down.”

Harry sighs; Louis and Kamryn are so, so perfect for one another, and ― and if Harry calls the wedding off, it doesn’t necessarily have to go to waste. All the invites, all the decorations, all the money spent ―  it doesn’t have to go to waste because Louis and Kamryn can marry, if they choose to.

Whoa. What an eye-opener.

Fuck. That’s _perfect_.

“They’re perfect for one another, aren’t they?” Lauren muses, mostly to herself as she steps up and twines her hand with Harry’s; her other arm is laced with Niall’s, and she’s just short enough for Harry and Niall to meet one another’s gaze over the top of her head, and it’s hurricanes and tornadoes and pummeling rain that destroys before washing everything away to start anew again. “Just perfect.”

“Yeah.” Harry nods, and Niall’s lips curl up into a grin that he can’t hide, and ― and Harry and Niall are perfect for one another, too. “Just perfect.”

-

Niall and Lauren’s grandparent’s own two houses ― one in town and one on the way out, just around a corner before the road turns to dirt and leads to farms that have been passed down for generations ― and they have allotted the wedding party free reign of the farmhouse while they stay at the townhouse for the duration of the ordeal.

It’s a long and tall estate that’s pushed back behind a thick bend of trees on the outside of Mullingar and bracketed by rolling plains of faded green grass that’s fenced in so the animals inside aren’t roaming, complete with winding corridors and hidden passageways and enough rooms to sustain a small army.

In fact, Harry’s fairly sure there was a dispute between warring clans settled in the backyard of the manor; he’s seen the headstones before when he came around for the family reunion, when he and Lauren and Niall walked through the fields and watched the lightning bugs dance in the air like firecrackers.

It smells dusty, like ancient memories and history and days long gone that have left an everlasting impression on all the tomorrows to come; there’s photographs on the walls and old rugs on the floors and jars of preserves lined in the cellar out back that only taste better with age, and ― and this is the kind of place Harry can see himself settling in.

The beds are uncomfortable, though, and the rooms are too large and dark, and quite lonely, as well; it was mutually decided by Harry and Lauren that it would be beneficial if he and her were to take a bit of time apart before the wedding, sleeping on different wings of the home and coming in as minimal contact as possible, and though their reasons for bringing up the proposal are vastly variegated, both were eager to consummate the deal.

Harry’s having withdrawals, though.

He’s lonely. He’s lonely, and he’s cold and he’s hot and he’s scared and he’s wet with want, and the room is dark and filled with ghosts of the past, and he hates the way blackness is swamping around his body and squeezing the life from his lungs, hates the way the uncertainty of night is making him question his sanity, hates the way his heart is going up and down, up and down, up and down with the endless possibilities of the vast abyss.

Is that a floorboard creaking as the house settles or a long-lost colonel calling out to his men to arise for training for an impending battle that will only be filled with bloodshed? Is that a coyote’s howl or a detached widow praying loudly for her husband to return to a god that refused to listen? Is that a limb scratching on the window as the wind billows outside, probably blowing in a small storm from the north, or a screech of cars on wood as children played amicably in the corridors, blissfully oblivious to the terrors of the world around them?

Harry’s never snubbed the idea that ghosts are real, never messed about with toys to conjure spirits or joked and jested about the falsity of a spirit’s tangibility; he was raised in church and taught to respect the dead even though there is a very slim chance of them returning from beyond the grave to extract revenge on the world they left behind.

However, he can’t shake the feeling of being watched, of being scrutinized, and the apprehension feels like bugs crawling all over his skin; he’s up in an instant, disregarding the fact that he’s only dressed in boxers and socks and a thin t-shirt, and jerking the door open, jogging down the corridor and around the corner toward Niall’s designated room, bypassing everybody else’s quarters.

He fiddles with the knob, shoulders the door open and flicks on the light; Niall sits up in bed that’s in the middle of the room, disgruntled and nearly-naked in a well-worn pair of white boxer briefs. His eyes are heavy and his cheeks are blotched and his body is pale and his lips are pansy pink, and he looks like the way sensual need feels like. Harry shuts the door behind him, allows himself to inhale deeply, and it feels excessively lighter in this room than it did in his.

“Harry?”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Harry says, gasps, and Niall’s brows furrow as he balls his hands into fists and wipes the sleep from his eyes, grabbing at the sheets once his vision is clear. “Please don’t laugh at me, Ni.”

“Not at you, H, but with you,” he replies, gives Harry a crooked grin before falling over and patting the empty space beside him, and his arms are open and he looks so, so welcoming, and ― and Harry’s home is in Niall’s arms, really, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. “Come lay with me and tell me what you’ve got on your mind, love. I’m all ears.”

Harry nods, turns down the lights and surges forward, falling into the bed in a mess of blankets and pillows; he scoots close, tangles himself around Niall as they intertwine their bodies between the sheets, shoving his face into Niall’s neck and breathing in, breathing out.

In, out, in, out, in, out.

Okay. _He’s_ _okay_.

He’s with Niall ― of course he’s okay. He’ll always be okay when he’s with Niall.

“I… I thought somebody was watching me,” Harry explains, quiet and careful and soft against Niall’s throat, nudging his nose into Niall’s Adam’s apple till a bit of ache settles in and he can feel more than the eyes on his skin, on his back, on his heart. “It’s weird, but, like, it felt like somebody was in the room with me, and I ― I got scared, s’all.”

 “Scared?” Niall repeats, makes sure; his arms are wound around Harry’s shoulders while Harry’s are around Niall’s fleshy hips, and they fit so well together that Harry demands to know _why_ it’s taken so long for them to come to one another like this. Niall takes Harry’s hair out of its bun again, puts the elastic band on his wrist and combs his fingers through the messy tendrils, picking out the snarls and tangles. “Oh, Harry. Are you okay?”

Harry nods and sniffles, though he isn’t crying, hasn’t bawled his eyes out in at least two weeks ― and that’s a record. There’s an air of levelness, of rightness about this room, and Harry’s so, so relieved to be in Niall’s arms, to be wrapped up with Niall between the sheets, half-naked and sticky and warm, because that means he isn’t alone. The dreams, the feeling of being inside that empty room ― all of that is background noise compared to Niall whose smile is a concert and whose love is orchestras and whose eyes are speakers that pound, pound, pound.

And it feels good: the comfort of the room, the smoothness of the sheets, the warmth of Niall’s body, the tender and fluid and rampant and secure thump-thump-thump of Niall’s heart against Harry’s.

_Thump, thump, thump._

“I’m okay, yeah,” he replies, bringing his arm up and curling his hand on Niall’s shoulder, digging his nails bluntly into the skin there. “A bit shook up and uneasy, but I’m okay.”

“Good.” Niall moves about, rubs his nose along Harry’s temple and forehead and cheeks before putting their lips together in a kiss, in a soft meeting of mouths and lips and tongue before pulling back and giving Harry a smile, and Harry doesn’t care that it’s the ass crack of dawn, doesn’t care that neither of them haven’t brushed their teeth. This feels _good_ , so it must be right. “They’re nice, though. The ghosts, I mean. I’ve spent tons of nights here, just talking to them, and they don’t ever talk back, you know, but they’re great listeners.”

Harry shakes his head, scoffs a laugh that brings a twitchy smile to his lips. “Niall.”

“There’s a whole family, too. A mum and a dad, and, like, seven or so kids ― three or four girls, I think, and five boys. That’s ― there’s eight kids. Never mind. Eight. And they like to run up and down the halls, like to move your toothbrush and hide your socks when you aren’t looking. They get scared sometimes, too, ‘cause their daddy went off to fight and their mummy was beside herself with worry and had a lot more to do than before, and they sometimes crawl into bed with you when they get lonely.”

_“Niall!”_

“Sorry, sorry.” Niall laughs, ducks his head and giggles into Harry’s cheek, and the little fucker isn’t sorry at all, really. “Just wanted to make you smile, is all.” He presses kisses all over Harry’s face, sticky drags of his lips along Harry’s skin that makes Harry smile and smile and smile. “And you did.”

“I did not.”

“You did so!” Niall pesters, mushes the words into the skin on Harry’s forehead, and they feel like a tattoo of sensation on his flesh that he never wants to be without. “You’re doing it right now. You’re smiling, you little idiot ― you’re smiling for me!”

“No, I’m not.” He is, though ― smiling, that is. He’s smiling, and laughing, and giggling and chuckling, and he’s hiding the noises in Niall’s skin, hiding the sounds in the darkness of the room that’s riddled with fading moonlight that’s going to be morphing into early-morning sunlight in a matter of short minutes. “You’re just blind.”

Niall cackles, scratches his fingers along Harry’s scalp and flips Harry onto his back, climbing up and over and straddling Harry’s waist, and ― and there’s only two thin layers of underwear keeping them from skin-on-skin, from flesh-on-flesh, but this okay, too, you know. Sex is the last thing on Harry’s mind; just touching and kissing and feeling and being with Niall is more wonderful than fucking ever will be.

Making love, though ― well, that’s a different story.  

“I’m not blind, you goofy boy,” Niall says, and Harry’s only just now realizing how pretty, how precious, how perfect he looks in the moonlight. Niall is a prince ― Niall is Harry’s prince, and he and Harry are going to rule the kingdom of the world as soon as Harry tells Lauren no. _No, no, no_. “I just love you a lot, Harry.”

Harry’s tummy warms and his heart swells, and he’s grabbing at Niall’s cheeks, pulling him down and meshing their lips together, and the kiss says everything he can’t, everything he won’t, everything that chokes his feelings off in his throat and haunts his soul when he’s trying to be peaceful and keeps him awake at night with dreams that are more terrifying than soothing.

_I love you, and I don’t see myself with anybody but you, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep you with me because you and I belong together._

Harry pulls back, moves his head to the side and allows Niall to stretch out atop him, and they’re messy and tangled and soft and pliant against one another, but Harry wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I also got lonely,” he says, whispers, and he’s the sun and Niall is the moon and they shine for one another, really. “I came to you ‘cause you make the loneliness go away.”

Niall sighs, moves the fingers of one hand through Harry’s hair while the other reaches down and tickles at Harry’s hairy thigh just beneath the line of his boxers. “Call the wedding off, Harry,” Niall says, and he isn’t begging, per se, but there’s a tinge of desperation in his voice that Harry catches far too easily, and it burns his heart more than he would like to admit. “Call it off, and you and I can handle every bad thing that it brings on together. We can do it together, Harry. Promise.”

Harry’s heart stutters. “I ―” he tries, trails off; he wants to, so badly, and he will. _He will_. He just doesn’t know when. _Fuck_. “Okay.”

Niall’s eyes light up, and they’re brighter than the sun, than the moon, than the stars; Niall’s shining for Harry, and Harry’s shining for Niall, and that’s how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it? That’s how love is supposed to be, right?

Yeah. _Hell yeah_.

“Okay? You’re going to call the wedding off?”

Harry nods, giggles. “Yes, I am,” he says, laughs, and there’s so much joy in Niall’s eyes, so much elation on Niall’s blotchy face, and they kiss ― they kiss and kiss and kiss, and it’s not the last, won’t ever be the last.

Because Harry’s going to call off the wedding. Harry’s going to call off the wedding, and he and Niall are going to be together. They’re going to be together.

 

 


	41. forty-one

Niall’s warm and cozy and soft and fluffy, cuddled up into Harry’s broad, thick chest; Harry’s made of muscle, yes, but there’s a small layer of pudge all around his body, and the little tummy he sometimes has makes the best pillow, really, and Niall doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

And it’s like a cave, really ― a cave of only them, an island of only them, a world of only them, where they can be vulnerable and riveting with each other, where they can be raw and naked and bare with each other, where they can be happy and content and serene and gently at peace with each other, where they can allow the primal need for one another to take over till they’re animals for each other in every way.

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like paradise.

Harry hums, makes a noise in the back of his throat and scoots closer to Niall, bringing his hands up to cradle Niall’s shoulders in his palms; Niall opens his eyes, sees that the late-morning sun is spilling in through the lacy white curtains and illuminating the room in a dusty glow of yellowish light, and the smile that spreads out across his lips is one that comes from his heart, from his soul, from the love that he has for Harry.

Harry’s going to call the wedding off. Harry said he was going to call the wedding off, and Niall’s happy. He’s ― he’s _happy_. In a roundabout way, with sick undertones of dirty pleasure for finally ― _finally_ ― getting what he wanted most in the world, he’s happy.

At the expense of Lauren’s joy, Niall is happy.

And he’s a bad person, too, but that’s okay, really; in the end, when everything’s gone and all that’s left is the ghost sensation of the feelings abandoned behind, it doesn’t matter who loved who or for how long. It just doesn’t matter.

But it matters now ― right now, it’s all that matters. Right now, Harry’s all that matters.

It’s kind of always been that way, you know. Niall liked him first, but it doesn’t matter, really. Niall and Lauren both like him now, and that doesn’t matter, either. None of it matters because Harry is _all_ that matters ― _Harry is all that matters._

And Niall hopes, prays, begs whatever deity wants to listen, that Lauren will understand and accept that fact, that she’ll realize Harry deserves to be happy, too, and if he isn’t filled with joy when he’s with her, he doesn’t have to stay in a relationship with her. Niall wants, needs Lauren to understand that Harry is doing this for Niall, that Harry is doing this for her, that Harry is doing this for himself.

Harry’s being selfish. After weeks of being selfless, of putting everybody above him on a pedestal they only fell off of over and over and over again just to be put back on, he’s finally being selfish.

And that makes Niall happy. Really, really happy.

“Mornin’,” Harry growls, grunts, and his voice is thick and heavy and raspy, and Niall relishes the sound; it’s his new favorite noise, his new favorite song, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing it again and again and again. “Sleep well, baby?”

Niall nods, giggles, buries his face into Harry’s chest, twisting his fist in the loose fabric of the t-shirt he’s wearing and baring his clavicles; his tattoos, odd etchings that cover his body in fading ink of beautiful pictures, are one of Niall’s favorite things to trace between the sheets when it’s just them against the world, and he loves drawing the corners of the swallows more than he would like to admit.

It’s just something he does; like breathing, like blinking, like being ― it’s just natural.  

“I did, yeah,” he replies, yawns; what little bit of sleep he was able to get was great, was spectacular, was dreamless because, for once, his reality is better than whatever his mind thinks up when he’s resting. “Did you?” He worms around a bit, wriggles into a position where his knee is spreading Harry’s thighs and their legs are entangled like ribbons of fate; he brings one hand up, uses the tips of his fingers to push the hair that’s flopped over onto Harry’s forehead out of the way because he wants to see Harry’s pretty, pretty green eyes, and it’s a soft sensation on his skin that he craves to feel all over his body. “You didn’t move a muscle the entire night, H.”

Harry smiles, and it’s a soft, tiny grin that makes Niall tingle in all the right places; he can’t get enough of Harry, he can’t get enough of Harry, _he can’t get enough of Harry._

Oh. Insanity is a good feeling when you’re going crazy with love, crazy with affection, crazy with adoration.

“S’good sleep,” he murmurs, flutters his eyes and drops his forehead against Niall’s, and his breath stinks, kind of, but Niall doesn’t care because this is Harry ― and Harry could smell like monkey dung every single day and Niall would still be just as in love with him as he is now. “S’good dreams, too. Very good ones.” He laughs, puffs out a breath of cold air on Niall’s burning skin. “You were in all of them.”

Niall hums, cards his fingers through Harry’s hair; it’s a tangled, snarled mess of ratted curls and angry tendrils, and it’s a little bit greasy, too, but Niall pays no mind to it, really, because Harry smells like coconuts and peppermint and green apples and spice ― because Harry smells like happiness.

Niall’s happy. _Niall is happy._

And nothing, nobody is going to take that away ― not the impending wedding, not their families, not the controversy of his and Harry’s relationship, not their friends, not the impossibility of falling in love with the one person he never thought he would, not Lauren.

Nothing, nobody ― _ever_. Harry is Niall’s, and that’s it ― _that’s final._

“Oh?” Niall quips, bends himself against Harry in a way that makes his heart pound, pound, pound. “And what was going on in these dreams of yours, Harry?”

 Harry flushes, turns a pretty shade of pansy pink; he ducks his head, nudges his nose against Niall’s till there’s a definite sting that Niall ignores in favor of being close, close, close to Harry.

“We were like… like this,” Harry replies, lifts and shifts his body against Niall’s, and Niall can feel the telltale hardness of Harry’s groin, can feel the heat and the strength and the length and the wet patch at the front of his loose boxer shorts ― which are so, so easy to stick a hand down, really. _Oh, my_. “We were like this, and you… you were kissing me, all over, and touching me, too, tugging me till I came all over your fingers and we both licked it off ― and it felt good. It felt like… like the first time all over again ― the first time with you, back at that restroom in the mall. It was ― it was messy, and awkward as hell walking back with dry, sticky cum all over me, but I loved every single second of it ‘cause it was with you. And if it feels like that in my dreams, so good and pure and soft and fun, then the real thing is only going to drive me insane, and I’m already crazy enough for you as it is.”

The confirmation that Harry thinks of him, that Harry has wet dreams of him, is just a little bit too much; he’s on fire and he’s cold, and he wants to ask Harry all the details, wants to bring his dreams to life so they can both relive what they so desperately crave in the worst of ways. Niall’s never had somebody feel for him in the way Harry does ― he’s wanted, yes, but he’s also _wanted_ , and those are two completely different things that stem from the same origin.

_I want you, I want you, I want you._

_How? Mentally, physically, emotionally? How?_

_All of them. I want all of you._

Niall doesn’t say anything, though, just shakes his head and breathes an exasperated laugh that hangs heavy in the air like the tattoos on Harry’s skin, like the stickiness of Niall’s need, like the whispered words on the walls. They’ve been waiting for one another, after all, holding out for each other for a long, long time; don’t they deserve to feel good, too?

After all the pain, all the nastiness of love and disloyalty and loss and betrayal, don’t they deserve to feel good, too?

“Harry ―”

Harry’s hips buck then, and it’s a pressure against Niall’s thigh that causes an electric sensation to spread across his body, gathering at his groin; he’s been awake for a bit, of course, and he’s had time to mentally talk his own morning excitement down, but now that he feels Harry’s hardness, feels Harry’s readiness, feels Harry’s heady stickiness, he can’t help but grow again. And it isn’t his fault, really, you know ― Harry plays a major key in it, yes, but he’s also a twenty-two year old virgin who only just recently found out what it feels like to have his cock in the mouth of the boy he loves, to be stroked and fed and relieved of the hunger that’s been growing for years, and that’s enough to drive even a saint to sin.

Niall will sin for Harry ― Niall will do for Harry whatever is asked of him, and he has no qualms about it, either. Out of all the people in the world, it’s Harry ― it’s always been Harry, and it always will be, too.

Niall knows it, Harry knows it ― they both know it, and they aren’t refuting it, either.

“You’re a horny little shit, aren’t you?” Niall muses, swears beneath his breath; one hand stays tangled in Harry’s hair while the other ghosts across Harry’s chest, catching in the fabric of the shirt and lifting it up till it’s skin on skin and Niall can feel the heat of Harry’s flesh and the pound of Harry’s heart just beneath his fingertips. “You’re never satisfied, always asking for more ‘cause you know I can’t ever tell you no.”

That’s not the truth. Niall can tell Harry no, and he has, too, but sometimes he doesn’t want to, and Harry deserves the whole world, anyway.

Harry giggles, brings his hands up and hides his pink face behind his palms, and he’s so, so cute when he’s flushed, when he’s flustered, and Niall feels little pieces of himself chipping away as he continues to fall, fall, fall.

And ― and this time, he isn’t alone. This time, Harry’s falling with him. Their hands are interlocked and their hearts are one and the colors of their souls are the same, and they’re falling together.

It was always supposed to be like this. _Always_.

“I know you don’t want to tell me no,” Harry responds, whispers, and it’s a quiet acknowledgement in the yellow paleness of the room, and if it’s like this all the time ― so easy, so simple, so elegant, so soft, so expressive, so sensual, so erotic, so sensorial ― Niall reckons he would be content burrowed in bed, wrapped in the sheets with Harry till the end of time. “But that’s all right, you know. I can’t tell you no, either.”

He smiles, and Niall does, too, and then they’re kissing, and it’s a tender touch of lips that ignites a fire in Niall’s tummy, and it spreads and spreads and spreads till they’re going up in flames; his fingers scratch delicately at Harry’s chest, across Harry’s abdomen, and then they’re fiddling with the waist of the loose underwear and Harry’s mouth is opening in a muffled gasp and Niall’s licking his tongue inside and shoving his hand down Harry’s boxers at the same time.

Harry’s smooth and warm in Niall’s hand, thick and heavy and long and solid; chills echo down Niall’s spine, over and over and over, and he’s swallowing the pitiful, deranged noises that are falling out of Harry’s mouth as his body shudders and quakes and folds to decrease the space between them.

His hand wraps around the base, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, really, but surely tugging an orgasm out of Harry isn’t too far different from fisting himself, naked and hot between the sheets.

Surely.

Niall drags his hand up loosely; it’s dry and hard, kind of, and he pushes his thumb into the slit at the head, smearing the creamy precum all along the shaft; Harry’s hips thrust and his back arches, and somehow he’s beneath Niall now, clawing at Niall’s bare back and leaving behind marks of passion, of fiery lust and inflamed love on Niall’s skin that will smart in the shower as Niall begins to move up and down, up and down, up and down.

There’s a fat vein on the underside, ridged and protruding, and Niall drags his finger along it, inhales harshly through his nose as he tosses his leg over Harry’s, spreading Harry’s thighs wide, wide, wide as Harry cries and sobs.

Harry jerks back, flings his head to the side; he’s breathing hard, breathing heavy, and Niall’s hot, heated as he puts his forehead to Harry’s cheek, as he flicks his wrist and tickles into the slit, as he squeezes at the base before dragging up, up, up, rolling Harry’s foreskin over the tip and peeling it back again and again and again.

Niall rolls his hips, catches Harry’s thigh with his groin, and a spark of hot chills covers Niall’s body in goosebumps at the friction, at the alleviation of pressure. “Wanna suck you off,” Niall says, murmurs, and it’s a scratchy noise in the heat between them, really, and he never knew how haughty, how hungry he could be for somebody till now. “Want you in my mouth.”

“Yes,” Harry hisses, nods, and his eyes are blown and his cheeks are red and his lips are pink and his temples are wet and ― and _fuck_ , he looks so good, so delicious, and Niall just wants to eat him right up. “Yes. Yes ― _please_ yes.”

Niall smiles, puckers his lips and presses a string of kisses along Harry’s jawline, nipping at the sharp bone there. He moves his hips a bit, lifts up; his crotch is pressed hard against Harry’s leg now, and the stimulation is deluded somewhat by the cloths that’s separating skin-on-skin, but it’s good, it’s enough, and Niall’s afraid to ask for much more because he knows he probably won’t get it.

He can get this, though. He’s getting this _right now_.

There’s a knock on the door, a quick repercussion of tap-tap-tap on the wood, and Harry’s whimpering low in his throat and chasing Niall’s touch as Niall jerks away, as Niall falls over and off, as Niall scoots as far from Harry as he possibly can be, as Niall fetches the sheets and creates a hiding place for his own excitement.

_Motherfucking hell._

The door opens, and Grace walks in, and she’s dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a pretty, pretty charcoal-colored sweater that catches the darker parts of her hair and highlights the undertones nicely. Her face is blank and sleepy as she rakes her gaze across Niall and Harry, paying close to attention to the telltale tent in Harry’s boxers, and then her eyes flash wide and she opens her mouth to say something.

But Lauren’s striding in right after her, wearing comfortable-looking leggings and a loose maroon shirt that nearly reaches her knees, and ― and that’s the end of it, really.

“Niall ―” Lauren begins, meets Niall’s glower of apprehensive shock; her gaze flits to Harry then, and her eyes narrow as her brows wrinkle. _Fuck_. “Harry? What are you doing here?”

Harry coughs, shifts to the side to hide his stiff and leaking length, and Niall shouldn’t be proud, really, but he kind of is. “I got freaked out and couldn’t sleep by myself,” he says, quiet and slow, and his voice is thick; Niall wets his lips, tries to pull in an appropriate amount of air around the lump in his throat and the solid rock of animalistic guilt in his gut. “You ― you and I agreed on seeing each other as little as we can till the wedding, Lauren.”

_I gave him that hard-on he’s hiding between the sheets. I made his face red and his lips wet and his back tingle, and I’m the person he was reaching for. Not you, Lauren. Not you._

Lauren sighs, brings a hand up and pushes it through her messily curled hair, swiping her bangs every which way. “So you came to Niall?” she asks, and she’s exasperated and annoyed, it seems, and ― and does she know? Does she know what’s been going on behind her back? “You’re a grown man, Harry, and you ought to know that there’s no such thing as monsters. You only scared yourself.”

But there is. Such a thing as monsters, that is. They hide in the darkness, in the shadows, in the lies told by pretty mouths, and sometimes they’re sickly smiles on somebody’s face while other times they’re fibs in the air between two people who are supposed to trust one another wholeheartedly.

Yeah, monsters are real. Niall and Harry are monsters.

“I got freaked out, Lauren,” Harry says again, hard-edged and deep. “This place is fucking scary, and you know it. I didn’t want to be by myself.”

Lauren scoffs, rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “I bet.”

Niall blanches, shifts his gaze to Grace; she shakes her head inconspicuously, gives him a sharp, disproving look that causes a ball of nasty regret to settle in his stomach. She can’t help him and he can’t help Harry and they can’t help one another, and they’re caught.

They’re all caught. Niall, Harry, Grace, Louis, Kamryn, Liam, Zayn ― all of them are caught.

“It was either Ni or Zayn ‘cause Lou and Liam are sharing, and I didn’t fancy wrestling with Z for a place to sleep, Lauren,” Harry replies, shrugs his shoulders, and how he’s playing it cool with a raging hard-on and ruddy cheeks is beyond Niall, really, but it’s not that big of a deal for him to sneak into Niall’s room, you know. He used to do it all the time; an upcoming wedding is apparently something that can’t change that habit. “What are you doing up for, anyway? We got here late, sweetheart ― you can sleep for as long as you want, Lauren.”

She nods, purses her lips. “I know,” she says, and her arms fall to her sides in a defeated manner. “I’ve just got a lot to do before tomorrow, is all.”

“We can help ―”

“No!” Lauren exclaims, cuts Harry off, and ― and why is Harry offering to help with a wedding he said he was going to call off? “You and Niall will only get in the way, and I can’t handle the two of you right now.”

“What do you want us to do then?” Niall asks, tries to hide the venom in his tone, but by the look on Grace’s face he definitely failed, and he hopes Lauren doesn’t take his anger to heart.

Lauren gives Niall a watery smile that clutches at his soul in a wet grip that he can’t shake on matter how hard he tries. “I want you and Harry to enjoy the day together in town,” she answers; Niall’s mind is running wild, and he isn’t sure which way to follow, down the rabbit hole or up the beanstalk or into the woods. “Gemma, Des, Robin and Anne are catching a flight in three hours, and they’ll need a ride from the airport, so you two can do that.”

“Till then, we just waste time in town?” Harry asks, blinks. “Do we need to do anything while we’re there?”

Lauren nods. “Stay out of trouble, is all,” she replies after a moment, giving Harry a soft, apologetic smile, and Harry is the luckiest fucker in the world to be loved by somebody as kind, somebody as forgiving as Lauren. “I’ll call you if we need you back, okay? I love you ― both of you.”

 “Love you,” Niall murmurs, falls back against the pillows; Lauren exits the room and Grace follows, and the look on her face makes Niall want to take it all back: his feelings, his actions, his words, his selfishness ― _everything_.

But he can’t. He can’t, and he won’t.

The door shuts and Harry lets out a breath of relief that floats in the air like a thunderhead forming in the distance. “That was…” he begins, trails off and turns his head to meet Niall’s wide eyes. “That was close.”

“You need to tell her,” Niall says, blinks and swallows; he’s still excited, yes, but they can’t risk it. “You need to call off the wedding before she’s walking down the aisle and you’re too blown away to say no.”

Harry nods, closes his eyes. “I will.”

“When?”

“Soon,” Harry answers, opens his eyes; he gives Niall a viscid smile and reaches for his hand, and their fingers interlace sloppily, languid and sleepy and trembling, and they try to put one another together even though they’re the reason the other is falling apart. “I’ll call it off soon, okay? Promise.”

Harry’s broken so many promises before, though; why would he keep this one?

-

“Every time I want to do something, it fucking rains.”

Niall slaps his hand over his mouth, tries to hold in the laughter that wants to slip out; he and Harry have been in town for an hour, having parked around the block in favor of walking through all the places Niall used to hang around as an impressionable teenager, and they’ve been ducking in and out of shops to hide from the pelting, misty rain as they waste time waiting on the plane to land, and Niall’s having the time of his life just being with Harry in this way.

“It’s just rain, rain, rain, rain, rain,” Harry continues, rants on and on and on, and the hand that isn’t covering Niall’s mouth is twined with Harry’s, and their fingers are wet and their hair is stringy, kind of, and their coats are making them cold instead of keeping them warm, but Niall’s having fun, having a good time, and he knows, deep down in the darkness of Harry’s anger, that he’s enjoying himself, too. “Can’t take a walk with my baby, can’t enjoy a nice day before I see my sister after she’s been gone so long, can’t find a decent gift to buy Maura so she can put it on the Christmas tree at the pub this year, can’t do anything. I can’t do anything ‘cause of the fucking rain.”

“Your baby?” Niall raises a brow, flicks his gaze over to meet Harry’s as the mist swirls around them like a miniature tornado. “Is that what I am to you?”

Harry sighs, shrugs, offers Niall a sheepish smile. “Dunno. What do you want to be?”

Niall blinks, lets his mind wonder for a moment. There’s so many titles ― boyfriend, lover, friend, brother, acquaintance, soulmate, stranger ― and none of them fit what they are to one another. Harry is Niall’s rockstar and Niall is Harry’s hero, and they can’t put what they are into words because nothing has been invented yet to describe them, to explain the way they are with one another.

“Yours,” Niall says after a moment. “I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine, too.”

Harry smiles, and his cheeks are a bit red, and Niall quite likes the color on him. “I’m yours,” he says, whispers, and his eyes are evergreen forests and windswept skies and dull metal and faded meadows and clear oceans and iron-like affection. “I’m yours, Niall.”

Niall stops then, tugs Harry beneath the maroon and white striped awning of a pub as he laughs; his mum’s place is on the other side of town, and Niall misses the home-like comfort of _Two Lost Souls on Two Barstools_ more than he realized. He’ll have to take a trip down to the pub before he catches the flight back to London, that’s for sure; it’s probably the best place to have a nice bachelor party, anyway.

“There’s a lot you can do in the rain, you know,” Niall says, smiles, and he and Harry are face-to-face, eye-to-eye, and there’s a fire between them that seems to evaporate off all of the water on their bodies. “You can sing in the rain, and dance in the rain, and play in the rain, and ― and kiss in the rain.” He wets his lips, watches as Harry’s eyes fall down to his mouth. “You can kiss me in the rain, too, Harry.”

Harry rolls his eyes, scoffs a laugh that hits Niall in the heart; he’s mad, yes, but his irritation, his raging temper is slowly, slowly turning into a discreet lightness, a hidden joy.

“Why would I want to get wet with you?” Harry asks, slants his head to the side; it’s Saturday, and most people are either at home or in the shops on the main strip, and neither of them have to worry about how close they are with one another because nobody is caring to look at two young men who are goofing off in the rain like little children. 

Niall pouts his lips, reaches his hand up and scratches it through Harry’s hair, tugging at the damp curls. “Why wouldn’t you want to get wet with me?” Niall counters, slants his head and moves his fingers along Harry’s scalp. “My skin is nice ― sometimes ― and my breath is fresh ‘cause I’m always chewing gum and my hair is soft, and you can wrap your fingers in it when you fuck me from behind.”

Harry’s cheeks turn pink and he swallows; neither of them have forgotten the complicated tryst from earlier, and Niall knows it’s going to be a paused thought at the back of both of their minds till they’re able to finish it, to finish each other.

“Can I fuck you in the rain?” Harry asks, smiles, and ― and Niall guffaws, throws his head back and laughs, and untangles his hand from Harry’s hair and jerks him out from beneath the awning and then they’re standing in the middle of the street, and it’s clear both ways and there are no cars parked on the edges because of the messiness of the day, and they’re getting wet, wet, wet.

“Harry?”

Harry shakes his head; water slings off of his hair and splashes on Niall’s cheeks, and the rain is cold but Harry’s hot and it’s okay. “You crazy boy,” Harry muses, steps close, and their chests are adhered and Harry’s arms are tight around Niall’s neck and Niall is hugging Harry’s waist like a lifeline in the steady, pelting drizzle. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Niall nods, gives Harry a crooked grin. “You know it,” he replies, winks, and he’s being silly, being goofy, but that doesn’t matter; Harry’s taught Niall it’s fun to embarrass yourself every once in a while because it builds character, and he can be whoever he wants, whatever he wants whenever he’s with Harry.  

Harry gives him freedom, gives him liberation.

Rolling his eyes again, Harry grunts. “You’re so bloody crazy,” he murmurs, steps a bit away from Niall’s chest as Niall begins to sway them back and forth, gently and softly and carefully; the street is slick with water and Harry is clumsy and Niall tends to be his hero oftentimes, and if one goes down the other will follow soon after, and they can’t afford to get hurt right now. “Want me to sing for you, baby?”

Niall nods, puts his cheek against Harry’s and shuts his eyes, defending his face from the rain that’s growing a bit heavier as they waddle in the street like drenched penguins.

“Yes, please,” he says, swallows; there’s a clinging hungriness in his stomach, in his heart, and no matter how strongly he clutches at Harry’s body, his appetite won’t settle, but he loves the craving because he knows he’ll never stop coming back for more. “If you want.”

Harry hums, steps on top of Niall’s foot as he sways Niall’s body to the beat of his heart. “ _So I heard you found somebody else/And at first I thought it was a lie_ ,” he begins, and Niall shivers because he knows this song entirely too well, and ― and Harry really shouldn’t be singing it. _He shouldn’t_. “ _I took all my things that make sounds/The rest I can do without/I don’t want your body/But I hate to think about you with somebody else/Our love has gone cold/You’re intertwining your soul with somebody else_.”

He stops, takes a short breath, and Niall joins in with him when he starts back up again because he just can’t help it, you know.

“ _I’m looking through you while you’re looking through your phone/And then leaving with somebody else/Oh, I don’t want your body/But I’m picturing your body with somebody else_.” 

They stop after that; Harry continues to hum in Niall’s ear, and it’s a lighthearted noise in that makes him cold, cold, cold.

“Why that song?” he asks, pulls away and gives Harry an acute, nearly afraid look. “Out of all the songs we know, why that one?”

Harry’s lips tilt into a grin, half-mocking and definitely self-depreciating. “Why not that song?” he asks, blinks his eyes; his lashes are heavy with water and his irises have never looked so bright. “You know it, too. It’s our song. It’s _our_ song, isn’t it?”

Niall shuts his eyes, breathes a sigh that stutters in his chest as the rain drops off the plains of his body. “You’ve got such a pretty voice, Harry,” he says, changes the subject as best as he can; he doesn’t agree with Harry, doesn’t give Harry insight to the fact that he lied awake for hours and hours and hours listening to that song on replay, hoping to make sense out everything. He’s found that Matty has a resilient power of putting thoughts into lyrics, into songs, and it’s easier to understand the strum of a guitar and the key of a piano and the hit of drum than it is to describe the bolting emotions in his body. “I wish you’d sing more.”

“Maybe.” Harry grins. “I’ll sing for you any day.”

“Call the wedding off, and you can sing to me whenever you want,” Niall says, moves his hand up along Harry’s back, beneath his thick coat as they continue to sway in the deserted street, pummeled with rain. “Call the wedding off, and you can have me whenever you want.”

Harry groans, tips his forehead against Niall’s. “I will,” he says, vows, swears ― promises. “I’ll call off the wedding. Just ― just give me time. Just give me a little bit more time.” He sighs then, puts his lips to Niall’s nose and kisses the rain off the ridge. “I… I love you, Niall.”

Niall’s heart doesn’t speed up and his breathing doesn’t catch in his throat and his soul doesn’t shudder and his fingers don’t tingle against Harry’s back and his body doesn’t tremble; his mind does, however, spread with color till he thinks he’s glowing, till he thinks he’s sparkling and glimmering and dazzling in the gray wetness around them.

He knows this. He’s known this. He’s known this all along ― Niall’s known that Harry’s in love with him all along. Harry fell in love with him quite a while ago; he’s only just now finding the courage, finding the strength to tell him, though, and that makes Niall calm, makes him at ease, at peace.

His heart doesn’t race when he’s with Harry because love doesn’t make you go wild, doesn’t make you go crazy, doesn’t make you lose your mind _like that_ ― love pacifies you, unifies you; love puts to sleep your discredits and inhibitions and instead wakes up your mind, rearranges your soul, ignites your will to be who you are meant to be with the person you were meant for.

Love is _easy_. It’s a mess, and it’s mental and stifling and hungry and colorful, and it is easy.

There’s fireflies on his skin and silver moons in his eyes and rushing waterfalls crashing in his tummy and screaming choruses ringing in his ears, yes, but love is easy, and he’s known it all along, anyway.

“I know, Harry,” Niall says, smiles, and he pulls back to take in Harry as a whole, as a graceless man with a wide smile and heart as good as gold and a smile that makes Niall feel as if he’s lived hundreds of lives. “I know you love me.”

Harry blinks, grapples for both of Niall’s hands to hold in his, and he’s shaking and it’s from the cold. “How?” he asks, hoarse and raspy; he coughs, clears his throat, tries again. “How did you know?”

“You don’t have to say you love me to show that you love me, Harry,” he replies. “All the times you looked at me, touched me, listened to me, smiled at me, laughed with me ― it’s easy to show somebody you love them ‘cause _love is easy_ , Harry. Love’s easy, and ― and it was so easy to fall in love with you because I knew you, because I still know you better than you know yourself.”

Harry shakes his head, barks out a laugh and grins, licks his lips; he pulls Niall close and their mouths meet, mesh in a kiss that’s hard fire and soft waves and burning wind and salty mountains, and Niall feels the earth shift a bit, feels his blood hum and his heart sing and his soul dance and his mind rejoice.

Harry is his, Harry is his, _Harry is his_.

Pulling away, Harry blinks slowly, grins languidly. “I kissed you in the rain,” he points out, cheeky and dimpled and wolf-like as he growls a snarled grin. “I kissed you in the rain like you wanted, baby.”

“You said you loved me in the rain,” Niall counters, wipes the drops of beating rain off of Harry’s soft skin so his face isn’t marred from Niall’s view. “You said you loved me in the rain, too, like you wanted.”

“I did, and I’ll do it every day for the rest of our lives if you’ll let me,” Harry replies, laughs like a little kid, and then he’s kissing Niall again, and they’re giggling and goofing off and granting one another’s deepest wishes till Harry’s phone rings, till they have to head to the airport to pick up Harry’s family.

And they’re slippery as they go, too, all wet and wild, and their hands hold tight, tight, tight as they continue to get lost in the world they’ve created with each other, for each other.

It’s just them now.


	42. forty-two

Niall sighs and crosses his feet, reaches for his glass of water and takes a sip as his eyes flit across the floor in front of him; the rehearsal for the wedding has just been completed ― and they ran through it four times, by the way, because Lauren wanted everything to be perfect, and since tomorrow is dedicated to the bachelor and bachelorette parties they aren’t going to have any time to practice, but Niall reckons that’s all right because it means he can spend more time with Harry, one on one, and gather details about when he’s going to call the wedding off ― and the party has dispersed magnetically in all sorts of directions to celebrate the impending nuptials in a way that makes everything seem a bit more brighter than it was before.

Louis and Kamryn are in the corner, and he’s sipping at a glass of wine and she’s rubbing her tummy and snacking on the finger food, drinking a bit of juice as they chat back and forth like friends who haven’t seen one another in a few years; Niall knows their hands are tangled together beneath the table, though, and they’re definitely far more than just friends, and it excites him more than he’ll ever let on to see that they’re finally admitting their feelings for one another.

Zayn and Liam are sat at another table a bit to the left of Louis and Kamryn, and Zayn’s working on a rough sketch of something or another, using an old pen and wrinkled a napkin, and Liam’s tapping away on his phone, occasionally stealing Zayn’s attention from his drawing to show him something funny or hilariously disgusting, it seems, and they’re goofing off just like they did in university, when it was term papers and finals and essays at the last minute fueled by coffee and Red Bull and cheap wine.  

Lauren and Grace are at the sound booth chatting with the woman there; her name is Lorelei, and Niall and Lauren have known her for years, since they were younger, and Niall reckons part of the reason this wedding happened so fast is because her and him both were vividly homesick and missing everything they left behind.

Everybody else, though ― Anne, Robin, Des; Maura, Bobby, Greg, Denise; Lauren’s dad David and his date Magnolia, her mum Carol Lynn and her new beau Michael; and a few others, too, that he and her, and Harry, too, have grown up with through the years ― are scattered about on the dancefloor, swaying back and forth to the music that’s being softly played.

And Harry ― well, he’s in the thicket of it all, of course, as he usually is, dancing with the litter of young children that were forced to tag along with their mummies and daddies and grammas and papas tonight; he’s got a little boy hanging from his back and both hands are taken by two twin girls that swirl him around and around and around, and there’s a cluster of little ones wrapped around him, and Niall hopes Harry has kids, hopes he has so many he’ll feel young even when he’s ninety-nine and his hip pops out of place when he tries to throw a few crazy shapes.

And he may or may not wish he’s the one to help Harry raise the little humans, too.

It’s just ― Niall will love Harry if they don’t marry, will love Harry if he marries somebody else, will love Harry if he has a child, will love Harry if he has two or three or four or five children, will love Harry if he has even more. And Niall will love Harry if he doesn’t marry at all, will love Harry if he never has a child, will love Harry if he spends his years wishing and craving he had married Niall after all, will love Harry if he grows old and gray by himself with no children or grandchildren or great grandchildren to keep him young.

Niall will admit, though, that he prefers the former on the late, empty, cold nights between the sheets when it’s just him and his thoughts, when it’s just him and his dreams, when it’s just him and his useless adoration, compared to all of the other scenarios that are in his mind, in his heart.

He wants Harry happy even if it isn’t with him, even if it’s with no one.

Harry needs him, though ― Harry needs Niall in the way that the world needs art, in the way that wedding dresses need dirt. Harry won’t be happy unless he has Niall.

Niall wants Harry ― Niall wants Harry to come and get him, to steal his heart and hold it hostage for days, for years, without falter or dubiety or contemplation or reluctance or hesitation or worry. Niall wants Harry to run as fast as he can and as hard as he can for as long as he can and as far as he can, and when he gets here, when he wraps Niall’s heart up in his arms like Niall cradles his body against his chest so their souls can mix and dance and tangle and twine, he never wants Harry to leave.

 _Ever_.

But the thing is ― honest feelings and bad timing and nasty cover-up lies and sticky situations and clinging guilt make the most painful, most ugly combination.

“You’re looking exceptionally good tonight, Mr. Horan.”

A smile breaks out across Niall’s face instantly at the familiar voice, and he looks over his shoulder and sees that Gemma is behind him with a big grin and open arms, and they saw each other a few hours ago, yes, and during the rehearsal, of course, but Niall didn’t get to hug her and cuddle her and gossip with her like he usually does, and it felt odd.

“You look very beautiful yourself, Gem,” he replies, stands up and wraps her shorter, rounder figure in his arms; she’s wearing a dress, as are most of the females spread about in the dining hall of the church ― for some unknown reason, there seems to be an unspoken rule that states you must dress fancy for a rehearsal dinner, though Niall isn’t sure why, and the best he did was a starched pair of jeans and white silk button down and one of Harry’s leather jackets ― and her gown is long and sleeveless and periwinkle blue, and the top is threaded and gathered in intricate designs that show off her chest without giving view of her body, and she looks even more beautiful than she did before she left for America, if possible. “I’ve missed you so, so much.”

She nods, grips his shoulders tight and meshes viscid kisses to his cheek; she pulls back, gives Niall an award-winning smile, and it’s so, so easy to see that her and Harry are related at times like this.

“I’ve missed you loads, too,” she says, whispers, and when she pulls back Niall can see a sparkle, a flame of fire in her big brown eyes that he’s never seen anywhere else. “It’s odd not being able to drive a bit and see you and the boys. I think I’ve missed you more than I’ve missed my own brother.”

Niall laughs, disentangles from her hug and pulls out a chair; she sits, and he does, too, and they’re facing one another and it’s been so long, too long, and he’s just as glad to see her as he is to see his own brother, his own mother and father, really.

Gemma isn’t his sister, no, and he hasn’t known her for as long as he has Lauren, for as long as he has all of his other female relatives, but he’s close to her, feels as if she’s part of his family even though they were born in different years to different people in different countries at different times.

Gemma isn’t his sister, no, but she kind of is his sister at the same time; after all, Niall was the one who went to pick Gemma up from the police station after she showed Harry’s ex-girlfriend just how crazy the Styles family really is. There’s only one Gemma ― she is the better Styles, you know, and Niall’s completely in love with Harry, yes, but he loves Gemma, too.

“I am a little bit better than him, aren’t I?” Niall replies, teases, and Gemma’s smirk of giggly humor is something he’s been missing, really. For the last few months, his life has been nonstop drama ― Gemma is a thick human with loads of secrets and thoughts and opinions, and being with her right now is like taking his first breath of fresh air in a long time.

“Don’t tell him I said so, but you kind of are,” she says, faux whispers as she turns away from Niall, faces out toward the dancefloor where Harry is swinging his hips and sashaying with a collection of kids, with a load of children in varying ages and fluffy dresses and tight suits. He looks adorable and happy, healthy and alive, and Niall likes the way Harry wears joy and excitement like a designer suit or a worn-in pair of jeans. “I mean, you can dance a hell of a lot better than he can, that’s for sure. He’s not gotten any better since Mum and Robin’s wedding ― sometimes I’m ashamed to let him out in public for fear that he’ll mob somebody with his nonexistent moves. I’m not sure how you do it.”

Niall shrugs, gives her a grin. “I’m not sure how I do it, either,” he muses, brings his hand up to rub at his scruffy chin; it feels good to be like this with Gemma, feels good to be able to bullshit and go along and not have to worry about the stress that’s eating away at his conscience for a few moments. “I think, a lot of the time, people are too busy watching him to worry about who he’s with, you know? It’s kind of hard to take your eyes off of him.”

And ― and it’s the truth. Harry has an aura about him, a glittering shine that grabs the attention of an entire room; when he walks in, it gets quiet, and when he speaks, there’s a rush of sparkling realization and acknowledgement that grabs everyone completely, and all eyes are on him.

Harry’s a fiery enigma, a mystifying parable, and he’s Niall’s favorite mystery because there’s no possible way he’ll ever be solved.

“Oh, I know.” Gemma snorts. “Mum made me take him to my orientation at uni ‘cause she wasn’t able to make it, and he ― he actually collapsed the dessert table from dancing on it and… and threw a dish of peach cobbler onto my humanities teacher because he was looking at Harry the wrong way. That’s what his excuse was ― honest. And he was old enough to behave, you know ― at fifteen, you know what’s acceptable to do in public and what isn’t.”

“And dancing on the dessert table to Mariah Carey while taking his clothes off definitely isn’t a smart thing to do.”

Gemma’s face brightens and there’s a rainbow of colors on her face that Niall adores. “He’s told you about it?” she asks, raises a brow.

Niall nods, cracks a grin that makes his cheeks hurt because it’s so large. “He has ― more than once, actually,” he confirms. “He’s a storytelling drunk, that’s for sure, and he tends to repeat himself sometimes, but I can’t tell him no ‘cause I quite like the way he talks.”

“Oh, he’s pitiful,” Gemma murmurs, shakes her head, and Niall nods, agrees with her; Harry is a mess, yes, but he’s a beautiful mess with wildflowers in his eyes and pretty colors in his soul and big stars in his heart and mountains of waterfalls in the veins of his body, and there will never be another like him in the world. _Ever_. “I heard you scored a job at a museum giving tours.”

“I did, yeah.” Niall smiles. “It’s a relief having a solid career, you know, and ― and I really like what I’ve got, where I’m going. I may not stay there forever, but I’m there for right now, and it’s okay. I like it a hell of a lot more than I did my job at the supermarket.”

Gemma smiles. “Harry rang me up at five in the morning and let me know,” she replies, rolls her eyes at her brother’s goofiness. “He’s just as excited as you are, I think. He could barely get the words out of his mouth without laughing so hard he had to take a moment for himself.”

Niall’s face flares at that, and he turns red ― red like Grace’s dress, red like the streaks in Gemma’s hair, red like the his mum’s painted nails, red like the little bows on his younger cousin’s wrists for decoration. “He ― he rang you up just to tell you?” he asks, blinks; he knew Harry was happy for him, but calling and waking Gemma from her sleep just to relay the news that Niall got himself a job is a bit much, even for him. “He… he didn’t have to do that. He shouldn’t have done it, really. What was he thinking?”

“Eh. Harry has a mind of his own, and he just wanted to the people who care about you to know. He often doesn’t think before he acts, anyway.” She smiles, and she’s telling the truth, and ― and fuck, he’s missed her so much. He didn’t know the extent of it till this very moment. “I did, however, curse him like a dog for waking me up. The time difference between London and Oklahoma isn’t one to be taken lightly, and for some reason he can’t get it through his thick skull that I’m not across town anymore.”

“How’s working abroad treating you, Gem?” Niall asks, dallies from the subject of Harry for a moment because it’s just too much to take sometimes. “I only know what Harry’s told me, and that’s not a lot at all.”

“That little shit. I told him to tell you.” She snorts. “I like it quite a bit, actually. The summers are hot and winters are cold, and the mosquitoes are royal assholes and the snakes are devils that like to slither into my apartment in the heat and scare the living shit out of me and the food is expensive, but the people are nice and the nights are pretty and the moon is still the same as it’s always been and wishing on the stars is something I’ve not grown out of yet.”

Niall hums. “Are you going to stay there for a bit longer then?” he asks, wets his lips. “Harry said you were to be there for a few years studying, but after that it was your decision on what to do. Have you made up your mind yet?”

She shakes her head, rolls her shoulders and flicks her long hair out of her face. “Not yet, no,” she answers. “I’ve made a few friends, and sometimes it’s hard to understand what they’re saying when they talk, but I’m happy where I am right now. There’s still some time to decide what I want to do afterward, and I’m not rushing on making up my mind.”

Niall smiles, nods his head. “I’m glad you like it,” he says, purses his lips; he’s telling the truth, too, and even though it’s been weird trying to get used to not having Gemma around when she was there _every_ _day_ , he and the others are all happy for her. “No matter what you decide ― we’ll all support you. We’re all very happy for you.”

“I’m happy, too,” she says, sighs, and then they’re silent for a moment as they allow the party to consume their minds, and Niall takes a quick sip of his water to ease the dryness of his throat. The impromptu romp in the rain earlier was messy and wet, wet, wet, and though there’s still trembles racking up and down his spine, he doesn’t think he’d change any of what happened even if he could. After all, Harry admitted his love ― Harry confirmed that he is in love with Niall, too, and it could have been in the middle of the desert or at the top of a building or on a boat in the ocean, but Harry did it in Niall’s home. And it’s that thought that makes him warm. “I always thought it would be you and him together in the end, you know.”

Niall blinks, pulled from his thoughts by Gemma’s odd observation and puts his glass of water down so it doesn’t spill. “Hmm?” he hums, wrinkles his nose; she can’t be serious about this. Is she? “What?”

“I always thought it would be you walking down the aisle to meet him at the end ― or him walking to you, or you and him both walking together, or not even walking at all,” she explains, rambles, and Niall’s heartbeat picks up considerably as she smiles and smiles and smiles. “I always thought it would be you, Niall.”

“Why?” he asks, breathes, and he wants to believe what she’s saying but he can’t ― he can’t, he can’t, _he can’t_. He can’t because there’s no way Gemma can know of Niall’s feelings for Harry and Harry’s thoughts about Niall. “Why did you think it would be me, Gem? Out of all the people, why me?”

“I mean, it was so easy to see, you know? You ― you adore him, and you didn’t and you still don’t worship the ground he walks on like so many others have, and he treats you like a prince, like you’re the only person he’ll ever need because you _are_ the only person he’s ever going to need. And it’s the way you look at him ― you look at him and you see the world, and he looks at you and he sees the universe, and when you look at each other it’s like all sorts of lost pieces fall into place, and it’s beautiful, really, but neither of you are seeing what I see, what we all see, and I wish you two would because you’re missing out on something great.”

Niall shivers, hates the way Gemma knows more about what’s going on than him, than Harry. “But ― but so much has happened, Gem, and… and Harry can’t get out of it and I can’t get him out of it, either,” he says, stutters, and he doesn’t like the taste in his mouth, at the back of his throat; if Gemma has been able to easily see it, how has Lauren not caught on? “He says he’s going to call the wedding off, but ― but I don’t know whether to believe him, and even if he does, there’s no guarantee him and I will stay together.”

“There’s guarantee, Niall. There is. He loves you. He can’t ever let you go, and he won’t, either.”

Better yet ― does Lauren know? And if she does, is she hiding her knowledge, waiting to call Niall and Harry out for their disloyalty, for their adultery in front of a church full of people? Or is she hoping that by marrying Harry, it’ll all go away ― all of it: the cheating, the lying, the unrequited feelings, the horror of being in love with somebody who doesn’t love you back?

Does Lauren know ― does she know?

“Does Lauren know?” Niall asks Gemma, urgent and quick and intense and heavy; his hand flies forward, grasps hers, and he’s holding on to her so he doesn’t fall apart on the inside. “Does Lauren know, Gem?”

Gemma’s eyes widen and she opens her mouth, tries to reply to Niall’s urgency, but Harry’s coming up behind Gemma then, and he’s smiley and sweaty and clingy as he moves about to sit on her knee like an oversized dog, as he wraps his arms around her neck and squeezes tight, tight, tight, pressing sloppy kisses to her temple and cheek.

Niall swallows, tries to level his heart’s beat out; Harry’s here now, after all, and he has a soothing way of keeping Niall calm even when he feels a hurricane coming on.

“Gemmy, you aren’t dancing,” Harry says, whines, and Niall’s heart does a weird flutter that makes his chest ache ― Harry loves his sister so much, and Niall’s never had the greatest relationship with Greg, no, but it’s siblings like Harry and Gemma that give him hope for better days. “Why aren’t you dancing, sis?”

Gemma rolls her eyes, goes to shove Harry off, but he’s strong and he holds on to her and doesn’t let her go. “Get off me, bloody cretin,” she says, hisses, pokes him in the side, but he doesn’t budge even though his body twitches and he giggles. “You are literally like some sort of plague, Harry, I swear. I cannot get rid of you no matter how hard I try.”

Harry pouts his lips, brings his fingertip up and pushes at Gemma’s cheek teasingly. “Don’t be mean,” he says, frowns. “I’ve not seen you in so long, and I just want to dance with you.”

Gemma sighs, wraps her arm around Harry’s waist to hold him close. “I’m not in the mood to dance right now, Haz,” she replies. “The plane ride was long, and my foot are hurting, and I’m waiting on mum to give me the signal so I can leave and head to a pub to drink my pain away.” She lays her head on Harry’s bicep. “Ask Niall to dance; I’m sure he’d love to act like a hooligan with you.”

No.

No, no, no.

Harry grins, turns to face Niall, and he looks like a king with a red face and glittering eyes. “Niall, will you come dance with me?” he asks, and Niall’s thrown back in time, tossed into a whirlwind of memories that he’s tried to keep down, down, down ― he’s at the family reunion again, on the outside looking in, and he sees himself and Harry and Lauren, and Harry’s asking him to dance and he’s declining and Lauren’s stepping up to take his place, and he’s watching the beginning of everything happen and he can’t do anything to fix it.

He’s up in an instant, shaking his head and tripping over his own two feet as he darts as far away as he can. “No ― not right now, Harry,” he says, stutters, and he hopes his face isn’t twisted into a frightened expression, but the look on Gemma’s face and the darkness in Harry’s eyes lets him know he’s absolute shit at hiding himself away. “I have to use the toilet. I’ll… be right back.”

He’s off then, parading through the crowd and making his way toward the corridor by the sound booth; Lauren gives him a look and Grace says something he doesn’t catch, tries to grapple for his fingers to hold, and he waves them off with a flick of his wrist as he turns the corner and makes his way down the hallway.

It’s dark and the floor is wooden, creaking beneath his feet as he strides through the blackness; he doesn’t care, though, because he knows all the odds and ends of this church, spent tons of hours inside finding every little crevice when he was younger with his cousins, and he just needs to find somewhere to calm down, somewhere to stop the shaking of his fingertips and the pounding of his heart so he doesn’t break down.

There’s a telltale noise of running feet behind him, and it’s heels against the hard floor, boots against wood, and he sighs, stops and turns around. “Harry, I don’t ―”

The person crashes into him, spins him and pushes him against the wall in half a second; lips are pressing against his in a millisecond and they’re soft and plush, tasting of fruity gloss and sparkling champagne and minty toothpaste, and this isn’t Harry.

_This isn’t Harry, this isn’t Harry, this isn’t Harry._

Niall gathers himself after a moment of cognizance, puts his hands on the person’s shoulders and shoves, gentle and careful, and they’re backing away and Niall’s blinking to see in the dark and trying to wipe the lipstick off of his mouth, and all he sees is Grace.

_Gracie?_

“Grace?”

It’s dark, yes, but her face is flushed and her lips are wet and her chest is rising rapidly, and Niall’s never seen her so worked up. “I had to do it once, Niall,” she says, soft and tender, and she’s defending herself but Niall’s not tried to attack her. He’s just ― he’s just _confused_. He doesn’t know what’s going on. “I had to do it at least one time before Harry messes it all up and you’re gone.”

“Gone?” Niall shakes his head. “What do you mean by gone? I’m not going anywhere.”

“You just don’t get it, Niall, do you?” She meets his eyes, and she’s fire and he’s ice and they’re melting and evaporating, and this doesn’t seem real. It _can’t_ be real. “I like you, Niall. I can’t say that I love you because I don’t, but all this time I’ve spent with you and talked with you and hugged you ― you didn’t see it? You didn’t once think that maybe, just maybe, I liked you a little bit more than you liked me?”

This isn’t real. It’s not. Niall’s so used to having to fight for love, to having to suffer and ache and cry and wither away till he’s almost lost all hope before there’s even a spark of requite, and the idea that somebody can love him first is just a bit ridiculous, just a bit incredulous.

And ― and out of all people, it’s _Grace_. It has to be Grace. Of course ― of fucking course it has to be the person who helped bring him out of his shell.

“I never noticed,” he replies, swallows around the lump in his throat. “I… I’m sorry, Gracie, but I’ve never noticed.”

“Of course you didn’t. You were too busy following Harry around to stop and look and _see_ that I was there behind you the entire time.”

“Please don’t hate me. Please don’t be mad at me because I didn’t see. Please, Gracie ― _please_.”

Grace just sighs, rubs her eyes; she steps forward, presses herself against Niall’s body, and she’s hugging him, twining her arms around his neck, and she’s kissing him again, so easy and simple and kind, and he’s letting her open his mouth, letting her slip her tongue inside, letting her taste him even though he isn’t hers to have.

He doesn’t kiss her, though. He just lets her use him in the same way he’s been using her all this time, and he hates how it’s taken him so, so long to realize how fucked this entire thing is.

There’s a noise, a cough, a strangled breath, and Grace pulls back with a pop and Niall gasps; Niall’s wide-eyed and almost scared as he turns his head, as he meets Harry’s curious gaze, and ― and this just couldn’t get any better, could it?

“Harry?”

Harry blinks. “Hi,” he says, offers a stupid wave that grips Niall’s heart and twists till he can’t feel a thing. “What’s ― what’s going on?”

Grace shakes her head, steps away from Niall and walks toward Harry. “Take care of him, Harry,” she says, stops in front of him and stands tall to press her lips to Harry’s cheek in a chaste, fleeting kiss. “Take care of our boy and make him happy because if you don’t, I will.”

She’s gone then, walking away from Niall and Harry on heels that are sharp enough to pierce both of their hearts, and Niall’s still bewildered, still wildly conflicted, and Harry looks scared, looks frightened, and they’re rushing forward in the next instant, and Harry’s arms are tight around Niall’s neck and Niall’s lips are harsh as they drag along Harry’s mouth, sucking and biting and nipping and marking and pinching and pulling, pulling, pulling.

They kiss, and it’s rough and it’s primal and it’s fierce and it’s feral and they’re animals with each other, for each other, and Harry is clawing at Niall’s hair and Niall is leaving pieces of himself for Harry because they’ve been shaken, been uprooted, been nearly ripped apart in so little time, and Niall won’t let Harry go and Harry can’t allow Niall to get loose now that they know they’re it, now that they know they’re going to fight like hell to stay together.

“I’m sorry,” Niall says, whimpers against Harry’s mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Harry pulls back, laughs a bit and wiggles his hips, silently asking Niall to sit him down, and ― and when did Niall pick him up? When did Niall shove him against the wall and use his groin to hold Harry high? And why is Harry laughing, acting as if everything is okay when nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , is going the way it needs to be?

“There’s no need to apologize, baby,” Harry replies, rubs Niall’s lips, and it’s light enough in the corridor that Niall can see a bit of reddish lipstick smeared across Harry’s mouth, and he knows there must be some on him, too. “I’m not mad. Promise. I mean ― Lauren’s hinted at Grace liking you a few times, but I ignored it ‘cause I never saw it.” He shrugs, smiles, brings his thumb up to wipe at Niall’s mouth, sensitive and soft, and they’re strong as long as they’re with one another, it seems. “I was too busy looking at you to see it.”

Niall nods, rolls his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbles on the flesh as he lets himself fall forward and into Harry’s arms; nobody’s going to be looking for them, and they have a little bit of time to just _be_ for a bit.

“What happens now?” he asks, light and airy, and he’s shaking and Harry isn’t, and he’s cold and Harry’s warm, and he’s home but Harry is his home. “What are we going to do now, Harry?”

 


	43. forty-three

The bed dips as Niall sits on the edge, full of care and gentleness, reaching out and putting his hands to Harry’s forehead; Harry groans, makes a thick noise of protest and rolls over toward the weight, all bare skin and sweaty limbs and tangled hair. He combs away Harry’s flyaway curls, tickling at the skin till Harry’s eyes are opening, slow and languid and heavy as he begins to wake from whatever dream he was having.

He’s bundled under the sheets, wrapped around the blankets; the yellowy sunlight is pilfering through the lacy curtains, painting Harry’s broad back with pretty shadows of light color. He looks cute, looks bedraggled, comfortable and soft on his tummy with his hands shoved beneath the pillows.

“Mornin’, H,” Niall greets, smiles, and it’s early ― it’s seven-thirty in the morning, Niall thinks, and though the rehearsal dinner didn’t close last night till after midnight, he couldn’t sleep, opting to instead stay up for hours dwelling on Harry, dwelling on Grace, dwelling on Lauren, dwelling on Harry and Grace and Lauren all at the same time ― but Niall’s already cooked, showered, cooked again for Kamryn, who was craving green eggs and chocolate gravy and steamed vegetables, and dressed. He wants some company; Kam ate, went back to bed, and Niall’s lonely. “D’you sleep well?”

Harry sighs, shuts his eyes and draws in a few breaths that makes his cheeks big. “Hi, baby,” he replies, opens his eyes and smiles groggily, sleepily, burrowing further beneath the messy blankets and sheets as he scoots a bit closer to Niall’s hip, sticking a finger out and twirling the tip through Niall’s belt loops in a possessively sweet way that has Niall swooning. “I slept okay. Did you?”

“It was good.” Niall nods, hopes the thin line of his lips doesn’t give Harry any indication that he’s lying because he really isn’t in the mood or state of mind to argue ― especially not after last night. What Grace did, how and why, was uncalled for; Harry wasn’t mad, isn’t mad, won’t be mad, but Niall’s still kind of scared ― she knows everything, and if she gets to Lauren before Harry does, things won’t be good at all. “A bit lonely ‘cause you weren’t there, you know, but good enough, I guess.”

Harry rolls his eyes, snorts a breath; he wraps his arm around Niall’s waist, jerks him forward and positions their bodies so they’re lying down, face to face and chest to chest and hip to hip; Niall can feel Harry’s morning hardness, knows that Harry was sleeping in the nude (because Niall left Harry’s room after he slipped off to sleep, still damp from a shower with arms that whined to hold Niall and twitching feet that kicked one too many times) and Harry can feel Niall’s warmth through the sheets, through the blankets, and this bed is decidedly a hell of a lot more comfortable than the itchy mattress he was lying on all night.

It’s probably the person he’s sharing it with, though. He isn’t mad ― being between the sheets with Harry is one of the best things in the world.

“Don’t lie to me, m’kay?” Harry says, chastises, and how he was able to figure out Niall was fibbing is a mystery that will surely never be solved. “Tell me the truth even if you don’t think I should hear it. Don’t do that ― don’t hide from me ‘cause it’s not healthy. There’s purple bags under your eyes, Ni, and the color looks really pretty on you, and I bet you’d look good in a lavender dress, but you need to sleep.”

Niall makes a face at that thought, brings his hand up and runs the pad of his thumb along the pink, puffy skin below Harry’s cloudy green eyes ― and if Niall will look good in lavender, Harry will look sensually amazing in periwinkle pink, too, and they could make a day out of it, you know, just strolling around their shared loft (if what Harry said was true, about him wanting to find a place with Niall) and snapping sloppy candids till their feet hurt and their tummies were sore from laughing so hard.

“You see everything, don’t you?” he asks, muses, and it’s half to himself, really; he’s in his own world, lost to all as he relishes Harry’s graceful, unadulterated beauty.

He’s of a mind that everybody is beautiful, yes ― because they are, of course; art is art no matter if it’s round or stick straight, no matter if it’s created short or sculpted tall, no matter it’s made of white marble or black granite or red clay or brown dirt or yellow porcelain ― but he’s never thought somebody could be stunning with swollen eyes, never thought somebody could be gorgeous with sweat-matted and sleep-tangled hair, never thought somebody could be sexy with a face of red blotches and a bare body of pinkish marks, never thought somebody could be innocent while being completely bare beneath the sheets, never thought somebody could steal the air out of his lung with raunchy morning breath and needy fingers and nervous feet. 

But Harry ― he’s got a weird way of rearranging Niall’s heart, of opening his mind and tangling their brain waves, of using the colors of his soul to paint Niall’s, and Niall loves being infiltrated, loves being taken over and shown how pretty the world really is if you just _look_.

“Yeah, I do.” Harry grins and nods, and his teeth are kind of big, kind of crooked, and he’s just so bloody adorable that Niall knows he can look at Harry till the end of time. “And I know everything, too.”

He leans forward then, and Harry’s breath stinks and Niall’s already brushed his teeth, but neither seem to care as their lips brush and catch and hold; Harry pushes forward, lays Niall’s head down and kisses him deep, kisses him thorough and strong and lazy all at once. Niall finds Harry’s hand, interlacing their fingers, and he’s keening and Harry is dropping his groin against Niall’s hips and Niall’s bucking up and Harry’s rolling down, down, down.

_Fuck._

And they’re both going to start something neither of them are in the position to finish at the moment if Niall doesn’t put a halt to the infernal activities; he’s just glad he thought to lock the door this time, glad he had the notion that getting caught again in a precarious situation such as this one would definitely not be good.

A repeat of yesterday morning wouldn’t be very lovely.

Niall giggles, tears his lips from Harry’s and pushes Harry off and over; he moves close, snuggles into Harry’s side as Harry sighs and readjusts the sheet around his obvious erection, covering both of their bodies, and Harry smells warm like spice and homey like apples and delicious like mint.

“You have a really big nose, Harry,” Niall says, teases; he loves Harry’s nose, though, loves that Harry isn’t perfect or clean-cut. He’s got gritty tattoos and greasy hair and two-toned skin and weird toes, and Niall loves everything about Harry because he is flawed perfection at its finest. “It’s kinda ― kinda huge.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s huge,” Harry counters, sassy and saucy and sexy, as he walks his fingers up Niall’s arm indolently, innocently. “But you know that, of course.”

Niall rolls his eyes, finds Harry’s hair with his hand and tugs till Harry lets out a low whine that penetrates the early-morning air. “You horny little shit,” Niall hisses, seethes, and he’s teasing Harry, playing with Harry, and ― and the fact that he can be himself with Harry is just so relaxing, just so relieving; he can be dirty with Harry but soft and sweet and sensitive with Harry, too. “I love you, though.”

Harry smiles, blinks and drags the pads of his fingers along Niall’s contours; he tickles his touch across Niall’s forehead, over Niall’s brows, along Niall’s jawline, against Niall’s lips to the slope of Niall’s nose, where he bumps the tip childishly, kissing away the surprise that Niall felt flitter over his face at the abrupt touch.

“I love you, too,” Harry replies, laughs; he sobers quickly, though, and gives Niall a look that has his heart singing and his soul dancing and his mind clapping. “I love you, Niall.”

“I know.” Niall nods because he does know ― it’s moments like this, when it’s him and Harry, and his adoration and Harry’s adolescence and his baffling resilience and Harry’s giddy joy, that Niall _knows_. Harry doesn’t have to say he’s in love with Niall to show that he is. “I know you do.”

Harry kisses Niall’s face then, drags his lips along the same path his fingertips took only seconds before. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realize it, baby,” he says, whispers, and the shift, the change from light to heavy, from early morning sunshine to late evening dusk, is withering and harsh, but Niall can handle it ― after all, Harry is a hurricane and Niall’s the little shack on an relatively uncharted beach, and Harry hasn’t beat Niall because he can’t. “If ― if I would’ve realized it before and… and said it a while ago, we wouldn’t be here now.”

Niall shakes his head, scratches at Harry’s scalp. “You don’t have to apologize, Harry,” he says, light and airy. “We’ve both done some stupid shit, and the fact that you’re admitting it now ― well, at least you’re admitting it. At least you’re going to call the wedding off.”

Harry nods, moves into Niall’s touch like a pet would its owner, and ― and Harry has a name for Niall, so Niall can have a name for Harry, too. _Pet_. “I’m scared to do it, Ni,” he announces. “I’m scared to call off the wedding.”

“’Cause of Lauren?”

Harry gulps, makes a noise and hides his face in Niall’s bicep, and Niall doesn’t mind being Harry’s hero when he needs to be. “That, and I don’t want to let down my mum and dad and Robin and Gemmy,” he gushes; his words are muffled and hard to hear, but Niall picks out the syllables just as easy as he can spot Harry in a crowd. “There’s so many people that are gonna be hurt, and their eyes will be on me, and ― and they’ll know it’s you. They’ll know you’re part of the reason why the wedding got called off.”

“I don’t think Gemma will be as upset as you’re imagining,” Niall replies, picks his words as stealthily as he can; he doesn’t see a point in blasting Harry’s sensitivity because it will only toss them backward after they have made so, so much progress over the last few days. “And as for the others ― they don’t matter. Their thoughts, their words, their actions? None of that matters ‘cause they don’t know you the way I do and they don’t know me the way you do, either. It doesn’t matter what they do or say or think because they don’t matter.”

“I love you ― I love you so much,” Harry replies, and his body is shaking as he adheres himself to Niall; he moves about, noses around, and then he’s kissing Niall’s neck, over and over and over, and Niall’s shuddering but chuckling and Harry’s whispering stupid secrets that both of them already know against Niall’s skin, and his words feel like tattoos on Niall’s flesh. Harry’s heavy on affection after just waking up ― Niall’s kind of always known that; it’s only just now registering how much he loves it. “I just love you ― sometimes it hits really, really hard, and I wonder what I did to deserve you, but I don’t think it matters ‘cause I have you.”

Niall hums, flexes his fingers in Harry’s hair and combs through the snarled mess; he needs a trim, but Niall doesn’t want Harry to cut it and he’s fairly sure Harry isn’t in the mind to snip it all off, either. “You do.”

“How’s… How’s Grace?”

Niall shrugs. “We’re okay,” he answers, shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, evenly. “We talked at the dinner last night a little bit, and she didn’t apologize but I wasn’t expecting her to. It’s just ― I wish I would’ve known, you know? I wish I could’ve seen it before she had to shove it in my face. I wish I’d have known.”

“That’s what you did to me,” Harry says, blinks, and his lashes are long, teasing caresses against Niall’s cheek as Niall opens his eyes and meets Harry’s lazy, sleepy gaze. “I had no idea how you felt about me, and then you threw it at me expecting me to be okay. Grace is in the same place you were, and you’re in the same place I was, and I’m in the same place Lauren still is.”

Oh.

Niall didn’t think of it like that. Niall didn’t ― Niall didn’t think of it at all because he was too enamored by Harry, too enthralled by everything that Harry is.

“I’m sorry for telling you the way I did,” Niall apologizes, ducks his head sheepishly; he turns red, blushes darkly, and by Harry’s breathy laugh Niall knows he can feel it on his lips. He didn’t plan to admit his feelings for Harry like he did; if it would have confessed his love for Harry in a different way, what would have happened? Would it still be like it is now? “It just hurt seeing you say yes, seeing you with her ‘cause you asked to for time and ― and I’ll give you anything, Harry. And if I didn’t tell you then I probably never would have.”

“I’m glad you told me ― even though you did it kind of shitty, I’m more than glad you told me,” Harry says, finds Niall’s hand and laces their fingers, and he holds tight and Niall grips strong and they’re two pieces of the same whole, two parts of a broken heart fitting together. “But it hurt seeing you with Grace last night. I’ve never… I’ve never had to see you like that with somebody, and I ― I didn’t know what to do.”

“I don’t love her, though,” Niall says, and he’ll say it every day, every hour, every minute, every second if he has to. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I love you.”

“For how long?”

Niall shuts his eyes, snuggles close, and now that he’s in Harry’s arms, now that he’s in Harry’s bed, how that he’s heard Harry’s voice and felt Harry’s touch, everything is okay, and he’s sleepy, sleepy, sleepy; the parties aren’t set to begin till dusk, and he reckons it doesn’t really matter how late he and Harry stay between the sheets as long as the door is locked.

“Forever,” Niall whispers. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

Harry smiles, relaxes. “It’s forever. I promise you that we’re forever.”

-

“What’s on the agenda tonight, men?” Harry asks whoever happens to be paying attention, nudging his shoulder into Niall’s and eliciting a timid giggle as they step up on the curb.

Niall stuffs his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat at Harry’s broad question, brings his eyes off the ground and sees that Louis is on the verge of skipping into the pub ahead of them and Liam is trying to keep Zayn out of the road because he’s too busy texting away on his phone to be paying much attention.

“I’m gonna get fucked up!” Louis calls, and there’s a few stray people spread about on the walk, but he pays them no mind as he jerks the door of _Two Lost Souls on Two Barstools_ open, waiting on the other four to catch up with his giddy excitement that’s been propelling him the last few hours. “Maura said everything tonight is on the house, and I’m definitely going to take her up on that offer. I am _so_ getting fucked up.”

Niall scoffs, stops in front of Louis as Liam and Zayn weave through and inside, leaving Harry to stand awkwardly next to Niall and Louis. “Don’t take advantage of my mum like that, Lou,” Niall berates, rolls his eyes. “She’s offering a few free rounds for Harry, not you.”

“What’s it matter?” Louis asks, wrinkles his brow and throws his hands up in the air. “Harry and Lauren aren’t getting married ‘cause the two of you have been fuckin’ since Christmas, and Kam’s feet have been giving her problems since we landed yesterday, and I’m going to take advantage of your mum’s offer. _Hell yeah_ I’m gonna take advantage of an offer like that.”  

Niall gulps, and it’s a loud swallow that ― that reminds him of when Harry sucked him deep and looked him good and ate all his cum, and he really shouldn’t be thinking about that because it would be too, too easy to see his erection in the jeans he’s wearing and he isn’t in the mood to have a quick wank in the toilet.

“We ― we do _not_ do that,” Niall replies, stutters, and his face is red and Harry’s looking away, whistling aimlessly and ignoring everything in favor of a flickering lamp on the side of the road. “You are ― you’re wrong, and Harry and I haven’t been together in that way yet, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh, hush.” Louis waves off Niall’s argument with a grin, stepping inside the pub and motioning for Niall and Harry to follow so the cold doesn’t overtake the warm, toasty heat inside. “My room is next to yours, and I heard you two yesterday morning. Harry moans like a damn porn star and the bed creaks ― I’m surprised Lauren didn’t hear it when she walked in.”

Harry coughs, brings his hand to his mouth and covers his lips. “Don’t bring that up,” he says, and he’s trying to be fierce, trying to be stern, but his ears are red and his cheeks are pink and his eyes are wide and ― and he isn’t the type to scold someone, really. He’s a live and let live person, for the most part. “She almost caught us.”

“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” Louis retorts, and ― and _what the fuck_? Where’d he come up with that? “Besides, if the two of you haven’t consummated your amoral relationship yet, feel free to skip out on the bachelor party and head back to the house to get it on while the cats are away. None of us would mind, and that’d be more drinks for me anyway.”

Niall sighs. “What Harry and I do between the sheets is none of your business, Louis,” Niall points out, steps a bit further into the pub, and it’s been so, so long since he’s walked around that he feels like he’s experiencing everything all over again ― there’s photographs and license plates and newspaper clippings and stretched jerseys of their favorite football players tacked on the walls; there’s a bar running the length opposite the door, and there’s liquor of all kinds spread out behind, and the tables are neat and the booths are discreet and the televisions are loud and it smells of spice and the music is intense and the atmosphere is one that Niall’s missed entirely too much.

“Ah, well.” Louis shrugs. “What goes on between the sheets is kind of my business since my pregnant girlfriend and I were flown to a different country to take part in a wedding that isn’t even going to happen.” He winks, offers a smirk; his words are filled with agitation but he isn’t acting like he cares very much. “If I have to be here, I better hear the two of you fucking before Lauren’s heart breaks and I have to find out how to sell that damn suit on EBay to pay for my plane ticket back home.”

“Don’t bring her in this,” Harry rushes to say, stepping forward; one hand grips Louis’s shoulder while the other tangles with Niall’s fingers, and Niall doesn’t like how Harry’s begging, how Louis’s eyes are widening, how everything seems too heavy to be real. “Please don’t bring her in this. Just ― just _don’t_ , Louis. Okay?”

Louis nods, reaches out and takes Harry’s hand off of his shoulder, interlacing their fingers, and Niall wonders what the patrons of the pub are thinking if they’re looking at the three of them with their hands tangled together like a three-piece.

“Sorry.” Louis drops his head, and the frown on his face stings. “I ― I wasn’t thinking. I get that you’re under a shit ton of stress, Harry, but so am I and ― and tonight is my night to let loose, and you two should, too. Get drunk, dance on the bar, forget about Lauren, ignore the fact that you’re cheating, fuck in the toilets and scream so loud I know who’s topping and who’s on bottom. Just have fun, yeah? ‘Cause I’m going to. I’m going to have the time of my life with you two tonight.” He shrugs, gives a grin and releases Harry’s hand. “There’s no telling how many more nights the five of us will be able to have like this, and I want to make the most of it while we can.”

He’s walking away then, weaving through the cluttered tables and heading toward the bar, where Zayn and Liam are already sat at and sipping from a bottled beer as they converse with Elaine, an old family friend that’s been working at the pub ever since his mum opened the doors years before.

He sighs, shakes his shoulders and erases the worry from his mind; tonight is about letting loose and forgetting about what’s going to tie you down, yes, and he wants to have just as much fun as Louis is begging for them to enjoy. Niall wants to have fun, too, and he thinks he deserves it.

“Niall?”

Niall turns, looks at Harry; he’s dressed in black jeans and a sheer white t-shirt that goes so, so well with the charcoal-colored leather jacket he’s wearing. “Yeah?” he says, wets his lips; though they’ve been a bit careless about showing affection in public for the last few days, he knows they need to keep their connections to a minimum tonight because half the people in this bar have been invited to the wedding tomorrow ― that isn’t going to take place, by the way, according to Louis, and Niall hopes that he’s right. “What’s up?”

Harry’s bottom lip quivers and his fingernails dig into the flesh of Niall’s palm. “I love you,” he answers, whispery-soft and sticky and rushed. “I love you, I love you ― I love you lots. Okay?”

Niall nods; his heart is jumping in his chest because Harry is scaring him, and he doesn’t know what to do because they’re in his mum’s pub, because they’re surrounded by dozens of people who have known him since he was waddling around in diapers. He doesn’t know what to do for Harry because he doesn’t know what to do for himself.

“I love you, too, Harry.” Niall frowns, pulls Harry just a bit closer as a group of three women come sidling through the entrance, dressed warmly for the weather and brushing Niall’s shoulders as they pass. “I love you a lot too, Harry.”

“Remember it, okay?” Harry says ― and he’s pleading and he’s begging, and he’s scaring Niall because his hands are shaking, because his shoulders are tight, because his eyes are wide, because his face is pale. “Just ― just remember it and remember me, too.”

Niall’s eyes widen and a gasp escapes from his lips as he grabs at Harry with his other hand, as he pulls their bodies flush together, and the heat between them knocks his common sense away. “Harry ―”

“Niall, Harry! Stop screwin’ ‘round and get your asses over here ― we’re ‘bout to get fucked up!”

-

“Harry’s been gone a long time,” Maura muses as she picks up an empty beer glass, wiping the condensation off the bar and laying the cup in the bucket to her left for washing a bit later. “You should go check on him, make sure he’s not fallen and hurt himself or something. I don’t want Elaine going in there to clean and spotting him out cold on the floor, Niall.”

Niall purses his lips, stirs the straw around in the chocolate milk he made a few moments before; true to his word, Louis got fucked up, and Harry and Liam and Zayn did, also, and after a few rounds ― which included Louis asking Maura to dance and them doing their best rendition of _Coyote Ugly_ on the bar while Harry sang along to Bon Jovi and Zayn and Liam recorded the whole ordeal to send to Lauren and Kamryn ― Niall decided to stay relatively sober so he could drive them all back to the house.

Right now, though, the pub has closed ― it’s nearly five in the morning, after all ― and Louis is asleep in a booth and Zayn is sprawled out on one of the pool tables in the back and Liam is cuddled up behind the coat rack in the corner and Harry’s apparently discovered the passageway to Narnia in the toilet and Niall’s enjoying his milk.

“He’s fucked up, Mum,” Niall replies, and she gives him a stern look. “Sorry, but he is.”

Maura sighs. “Go check, please, for me.”

Niall nods ― he can’t tell his mother no ― and takes a big sip of his chocolate milk, hopping off the barstool and making his way around the bar, down the brightly lit corridor (drunks have a hard time seeing in the dark even though the lights tend to blind their eyes) and grabs the knob of the restroom, twisting it and pushing it wide.

Harry’s sat on the lone toilet in the middle of the room and his head is in his cracked hands and his white shirt is smeared with something red, red, red; the sink is to Niall’s left and there’s a mirror hung up over it and the glass is shattered, and there’s bloody pieces on the floor and the trash bin has been tossed over and ― and Harry is a mess and he’s crying and he’s bleeding and his knuckles are red and his shoulders are quaking and he’s falling apart.

_He’s falling apart._

“Harry?” Niall takes a tentative step closer to Harry; the door shuts, and he blindly fiddles about behind his back and flicks the lock. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

Harry looks up, and his eyes are red and wet and puffy and his lips are curled and wobbling and red. “I don’t like myself, Niall,” Harry says, and his voice is messy but his words are strong, and Niall doesn’t like how Harry can be so stable when he’s falling apart. “I really don’t like myself.”

“Why?” Niall’s careful and easy as he moves closer, as he steps around the glass fragments and moves to be in front of Harry; he puts his hands out, tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair and rubs the sweaty strands out of his face. “Why do you hate yourself?”

Harry sniffles, widens his legs and leans back, prompting Niall to step closer, which he does. “’Cause you hate me,” Harry answers, and it’s a whisper of a whine that makes Niall’s feet ache; he pushes Harry back, straddles Harry’s legs and sits on his thighs, pulling him close. “And ― and Lauren will, too, and so will all my friends and my family and your family and her family. Everybody’s gonna hate me, Niall.”

“Shh,” Niall hushes, soothes Harry’s flaring discomfort as he combs through Harry’s hair. “I don’t have you, Harry. I don’t. And nobody does or will hate you, either. Why would we?”

Harry shrugs, lets his forehead fall against Niall’s shoulder as his arms tangle around Niall’s waist; why this is all of a sudden happening, Niall isn’t sure, but he realizes it’s been a long time coming.

“I’m gonna break Lauren’s heart when I tell her I don’t want to marry her ‘cause I’ve fallen in love with you,” he replies, scattered and shaky. “And everybody’s gonna hate me for it.”

Niall sighs. “I’m not going to hate you. I don’t hate you now; what makes you think I can hate you?” He adjusts his hips, mindlessly grinds himself against Harry’s clothed groin. “And Lauren’s going to be mad, yeah, but she won’t hate you. She’ll be pissed off at you for a while, but I don’t think she’ll hate you.”

“You don’t know, though. You don’t know, Niall ― you don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know. _You don’t know_!”

Niall gathers Harry in his arms then, holds him close; he’s pinning Harry down, allowing him enough room to breathe but not flail about so he doesn’t hurt himself, so he doesn’t hurt Niall. His chest is hurting and his eyes are stinging ― seeing Harry like this, broken and icky with his guilt, is tearing him apart, and he doesn’t know, no, but he has hope, he has faith, he has love, and sometimes that’s all you need.

“I don’t know, no,” Niall nods, agrees, “but I know you, and I know myself, and I know we’re going to be all right. We’re all going to be okay in the end.”

Harry whimpers, makes a pitiful noise in the back of his throat and cries on Niall’s shoulder ― and cries and cries and cries, and Niall lets him cry and cry and cry, and he doesn’t shed a tear because Harry’s raining enough to water them both for years and one of them has to be strong. Niall was breaking and now he’s whole, and Harry was whole and now he’s breaking ― and somebody has to be whole while the other breaks in half, really.

“I wanna go, Niall. I wanna go _home_. I wanna leave and go to bed with you.”

Niall nods. “Okay. Okay.” He turns his head, presses kisses to Harry’s temple; he tastes sweat and blood and shampoo on his lips, and it makes him shiver. “We’ll go home, and we’ll go to bed. We’ll just go to bed.”

 


	44. forty-four

Harry awakens all of a sudden, and he’s in a fright, in a disarray as he rears up in bed and jerks about, untangles himself from between the sheets and backs against the headboard; there’s a dimness of pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains from his window to the left, illuminating a partial piece of the room he’s in with a blueness that reminds him of eyes that hold all the secrets in the world, and he notices he’s alone, notices there’s not a body, not a Niall next to him.

Odd. He remembers Niall dragging him back home, remembers Niall pulling him into the bathroom, remembers Niall cleaning his bloody knuckles, remembers Niall bandaging his icky wounds; he remembers Niall taking his clothes off, remembers Niall allowing him to crawl into bed on knocking knees, remembers Niall tucking him in, remembers Niall kissing his face, remembers Niall promising to be here when he wakes up.

Hmm. He broke that promise.

That’s okay, though. _It is_.

Harry makes a noise in the back of his throat, yawns and balls his hands into fists, puts the butt of his palms against his eyes and rubs and rubs and rubs till he can see a wide variety of colors, of sparks, of glimmering and explosive hues behind his lids that kind of take him off guard for a moment.

_Whoa._

He never knew sadness, never knew desperation and numbness could be so pretty.

He brings his hands away, sets them in his lap and fiddles with his fingers; his knuckles are bruised and bloodied and they hurt and his throat is itchy, scratchy, and his body is heavy and thick and lethargic and fatigued, and he needs a drink of water, needs a sip of something to rid his body of this strange dryness, but he needs Niall, too.

Needs Niall more, really.

Besides, Niall promised ― Niall promised, and he isn’t here like he said he would be, isn’t here like he swore to Harry he would be. Maybe ― maybe Niall does hate him, after all. Maybe Niall was lying earlier, at his mum’s pub when Niall was on his lap and Harry was gripping him hard, when Niall was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind as well as his head, and simply telling Harry what he knew Harry wanted, needed, craved to hear, and maybe he hates Harry.

Maybe Niall really does hate Harry.

But that’s ― that’s wrong, prosperous, ignorant and stupid and idiotic and crazy of him to think. Isn’t it? He and Niall have gone through hell to be where they are now, together but not together, with one another but not with one another at the same time; surely Niall doesn’t hate him because he loves him, because they’ve gone through so, so much for it all to be in vain.

Yeah. Yeah, Niall’s in love with him ― _still_ in love with him.

Hopefully, at least, because Harry? Harry won’t ever love anybody else the way he loves Niall, won’t ever want and need and beg and plead for anybody else the way he does Niall.

And ― and that’s okay. _It is okay_. Because, when he calls off the wedding ― _when_ ; he’s promised Niall, promised himself, and he may do it at the altar or he may do it as she’s walking down the aisle or he may do it before the wedding even starts or he may not do it at all, may just grab Niall’s hand and use the money he saved up (after paying his fines; they’re quite important, you know, and he doesn’t fancy another trip to the police station) and catch a plane to a different country for a little while and let his silence and their disappearance answer all the questions that will surely be raised ― he and Niall will be okay.

If they’re okay, everything is okay. _Everything will be okay._

Hopefully, at least ― there’s nothing wrong with hope, is there? There’s anger and there’s hatred and there’s nasty resentment; hope and love and faith are the only light in the darkness of the world Harry’s found himself shoved in.  

He just ― he just needs Niall. He just needs Niall really, really bad. Okay? He just needs Niall.

His body shivers and he grabs the white sheets, stands from the bed and wraps the silky fabric around his body, creating a weird sort of robe that will have to do as a barrier from his bareness; he’s wearing boxers, of course, but he knows the tenants of the house won’t appreciate seeing him skirting down the corridor in the middle of the night in his pansy pink underwear.

The wood floor is cold on his feet as he walks toward the door, turning the knob and stepping outside; it creaks, and he winces, lets out a pained noise as he shuts it and makes his way down the corridor, toward Niall’s room. His door is half open and there’s a sliver of light flowing out, creating a triangle of yellow illumination on the floor, and Harry smiles to himself as he pulls it wide and steps inside.

Niall’s sat in the middle of his bed, dressed down in a black baggy t-shirt and loose white boxers; there’s glasses on his face and his hair is a mess and he’s got a book perched on his knee. He’s slumped over the novel, picking at his lips with one hand while the other fingers the pages, and in this light and in this moment, he looks supernatural, looks out of this world in the most comforting away.

Hmm. Harry wouldn’t mind leaving this world for a little while.

“Niall?” he says, calls out softly; he shuts the door, turns the lock, and Niall looks up from his book and gives Harry a wilting smile. “You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Niall marks his place, shuts his book and leans over, placing it on the bedside table; Harry can’t see the cover, but it looks old and worn and well-used. “I heard the girls get back an hour or so ago, and I didn’t want Lauren coming in on us like she did the other day,” Niall explains, and Harry nods slowly; when it comes to the primal things they do between the sheets, Niall’s the only one who thinks with both heads instead of just one. “C’mon over here and sit with me, please. You’ve only been asleep for about an hour, and you look like you’re about to topple over with exhaustion.”

Harry nods, shuffles close; he tightens the sheets around his body, sits on the bed in front of Niall. Their knees are touching, are caressing one another’s; Niall’s eyes are wide and puffy and red ― from lack of sleep, Harry hopes ― and his shirt is wrinkled and his nose is pink and his legs are pale and his mouth has a bit of dried drool on the sides.

He’s beautiful.

He’s just ― he’s so, so _beautiful_.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Harry asks, slants his head.

Niall smiles, reaches up and takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asks, counters, folding his glasses and leaning over to lay them on the table next to his book. His shirt raises, just a bit, and Harry catches a glimpse of his creamy tummy, of his fleshy hip, and he… he kind of wants to make love with Niall right now. Tonight ― _right now_. “You were out of it when I left you.”

“You left me,” Harry says. “That’s why I woke up.”

“That, or you had to throw up all the liquor you drank.”

Harry frowns. “I didn’t drink that much,” he says, brings the sheet up to his face and wipes at his eyes and mouth and nose. “I wasn’t belligerent, I don’t think. I knew what I was doing.”

“You knew you were smashing your knuckles against glass?”

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he replies, quiet and soft. “I kind of… I kinda lost it for a moment, and I didn’t know how to get it back.”

“I know.” Niall reaches forward, grapples at the sheets for Harry’s hand, and their fingers are interlacing and Harry likes the callouses on Niall’s hand because they match the rough edges and scratchy patches on his own palms. “I’m not mad about it, either. You ― you’re under a lot of pressure, and there’s not many ways to let that out, I don’t think. I’m not mad that you did what you did. I just… I just wish you would’ve told me before you busted your knuckles.”

“I ― it was either fuck you or fight something that wasn’t going to hit back,” Harry retorts, and he’s red, red, red, and Niall’s cheeks are a little bit pink, too, at Harry’s sudden announcement, but ― but Niall’s known for a long time that Harry is sexually attracted to him. This isn’t news. “I didn’t think you wanted to lose your virginity to me in the toilet of your mum’s place when II was sloppy and messy, and I was sober enough to know that I didn’t want to take that away from you at that moment, either.”

Niall smiles, scoots forward; his other hand moves up, touches Harry’s face, and Harry knows he looks like a mess, knows his eyes are bloodshot and his hair is a snarled wreck of tangles and his nose is oily and his lips are surely smeared with dried drool, too, but Niall’s making Harry feel like he’s the sun, like he’s the moon, like he’s all the stars and all the planets and all the universes, combined and apart, and he likes the way that feels.

Harry knows he isn’t perfect, knows he isn’t the most attractive person in the world: some of his tattoos are weird and gritty, and his hair is long and greasy and his nose is big and his lips are thin and one of his eyes are larger than the other; his feet point inward when he walks and his toes are strange and his hips are large and he has four nipples and he’s got strange marks all over his skin, but when Niall looks at him like that ― when Niall’s eyes are clear and his face is soft and his smile is serene, Harry feels utterly beautiful, like he’s the prettiest piece of art in the entire world.

“You’re not drunk anymore, are you?” Niall asks, smooths his fingers along Harry’s eyebrows ― he tries to keep them trimmed and neat, but he’s not been focused on the trivial things of life in a few months, and they’re probably bushy from his wild, forty-five minute nap he was able to have. “It’s all out of your system now, isn’t it?”

Harry nods. “I think so, yeah.” He leans into Niall’s touch, allows the sheets around his body to fall; his shoulders are bare now and the fabric is hanging off of his arms and the chill of the room causes a layer of gooseflesh to litter his skin and he likes how intimate everything feels in the dimness of the lump. “I don’t… feel it now.”

But he feels drunk with Niall ― because he _is_ drunk on Niall: on Niall’s love, on Niall’s touch, on Niall’s sounds, on Niall’s smells, on Niall’s tastes. Harry doesn’t need liquor; there’s no amount of alcohol or drugs in the world that can make him feel the same he way he does when he’s with Niall.

“I wouldn’t mind now,” Niall says, whispers, and Harry lets out a whimper at Niall’s suggestive words; there’s so many images floating through his mind, and he doesn’t have enough sanity to take them all in at once. “If you wanted to, that is. I wouldn’t mind losing it to you right now if you’re ready ‘cause I’m ready, too.”

Harry shuts his eyes, shudders from the air and Niall’s words. “Are you sure?” he asks, and it’s quiet and his heart is a gentle thump-thump-thump between the sheets he’s wearing. “You have to be sure, Niall. I don’t want to do something that you aren’t completely okay with.”

“Yeah.” Niall chuckles, and Harry opens his eyes, realizes that in this light Niall looks like an angel ― Harry’s angel. “I’ve waited a long time, and I’m tired of it. I’m ready for you.”

Harry whines low in his throat, moves to sit on his knees in front of Niall, over Niall. “What about everybody else?” he asks, throws that fact out in the open between them as he backs Niall up against the headboard, and he’s tall and Niall’s small and they’re just too perfect. “Aren’t you worried they’ll hear?”

Niall laughs, shakes his head; he brings his hands up, puts them on Harry’s shoulders and pushes the sheets away, and his fingertips are like butterfly wings on Harry’s skin as they caress his flesh. “The girls were pretty wasted when they came in,” he replies. “I don’t think they’ll be up any time soon, and if they are, it’ll prob’ly only be to use the toilet or grab a glass to drink. The door’s locked, right?”

Harry nods ― and nods and nods and nods. He’s excited, and where this sudden rush of needy pleasure came from, he isn’t exactly sure, but he loves it. He’s never felt this way before, and he loves it ― he loves it, he loves it, _he loves it._

“I love you,” he says, leans close and rubs his nose against Niall’s, eliciting a muffled laugh from Niall’s lips that is immediately Harry’s new favorite song. “I love you so, so much, baby.”

“I love you, too, Harry.” Niall grins, digs his blunt nails into Harry’s fleshy hips. “I love you, too, you goofy, silly boy.”

Harry sighs, brings one hand up to Niall’s shoulder; his fingers grip the fabric of Niall’s shirt, pulling it tight, and he leans down, puts his lips to Niall’s forehead because he needs to touch some part of Niall before he cries. “I don’t want to make you think you have to do this, baby,” he says, whispers against Niall’s skin. “If you say no, I won’t be mad; I have no right to be angry with you over something like this.”

Niall moves his fingers up Harry’s side, cupping Harry’s neck. “I want it.” Niall nods, scratches Harry’s skin enough to bring out a mewl of painful pleasure from Harry’s lips. “I want you right now, and I’ll want you tomorrow and the next day and all the days after, too.”

“It’s just ―” Harry tries, cuts himself off as his mind falters for a moment. He’s never done this before ― he’s had sex, yes, but never with a man, never with somebody that identifies as a male, and… and surely it isn’t that different, really, but it actually kind of is, and he doesn’t want to mess up. He doesn’t want to hurt Niall and mess everything up that they’re fighting so hard to keep safe. “I’ve not ―”

“It’s okay, Harry,” Niall soothes, pets Harry’s shoulders and lays his face against Harry’s bare chest; his breath is like the gentle wind after a gale-like outburst, and Harry feels solid, feels whole in so many ways that he never thought he would be again, and he’s so, so thankful to have somebody like Niall in his life, in his arms, in his heart. “I’ve never done it ― done _this_ ― either, but we’ll go slow. We’ll take it slow ― we’ll go as slow as you want.”

Harry finds it a bit odd that Niall ― that Niall, a virgin who has only ever been touched by Harry, and then very few times at that ― is the one reassuring him, is the one reminding him everything is going to be okay.

“I love you so fucking much, baby.”

Harry flashes forward then, cups Niall’s cheeks and holds him still, and then they’re kissing, and Niall tastes like pineapples and orange juice and Harry’s only glad he brushed his teeth after Niall cleaned his knuckles earlier; he doesn’t fancy the thought of wrinkling Niall’s nose with the smell of soured beer and nasty liquor.

Niall moans, makes a deep noise in the back of his throat; he flicks his tongue across the seam of Harry’s lips once, twice, three times before Harry’s opening his mouth and allowing Niall to lick inside, to taste all over, and there’s a warmness, a tight hotness gathering in the pit of his stomach, and he’s kneeing Niall’s legs apart and dropping down, sitting on Niall’s lap, on Niall’s steady groin, and they’re close, close, close, so adhered together that they’re one, that they’re two halves of the same whole.

But they aren’t halves, have never been halves. They’re like ― they’re like a reversible puzzle: Harry is one side, colored green and brown with forests that stretch on forever and mountains that reach the stars, and Niall’s the other, blue with the deepest ocean water that’s crashing over sharp gray rocks near the coast as people walk and take the innocent beauty for granted.

Niall hums, slants his head and bumps his nose against Harry’s; his hands move down, move low, and then his palms are cupping Harry’s bum through his pink underwear, are molding and pressing and squeezing and fondling the flesh there, and Harry’s going crazy ― Niall’s tongue is down his throat and Niall’s growing erection is pressing against his and Niall’s needy hands are on his ass, and _Harry’s going crazy_.

He pulls back, takes a deep breath as Niall’s tongue slips out of his mouth slickly; there’s a bridge of saliva that connects their lips, and Harry sucks it up because he can’t get enough of Niall. “You ― all the way?” he asks, pants, blinks. “You want to go all the way tonight?”

Niall nods. “It’s morning, Harry,” he replies, giggles, and Harry rolls his eyes, undulates his hips unconsciously as he scoots against Niall all the more, and ― and Niall’s mouth is dropping open and a gasp of breath is leaving Harry’s lips as he stills, as he chases the electric feeling of friction.

_Oh, my._

“Niall?”

“Do that again,” Niall orders, delicate and demanding; his fingers are harsh on Harry’s bum, are insistent and commanding as they force him to roll his hips and grind down, down, down. “Don’t stop ― don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, Harry.”

Harry nods, takes over control of his movements and oscillates his hips, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth; Niall tips his forehead against Harry’s chest, and he’s breathing hard, breathing heavy. His hands are still on Harry’s bum, more to share the rhythm there than control it, and Harry is hot, hot, _hot_ ― he’s on fire, and Niall’s burning, too, and there’s a knot in his stomach, a tightness of coiling pleasure that’s squeezing and squeezing and _squeezing_.

_Oh._

He’s about to come. He’s about to come, and they’ve hardly done anything at all. Oh.

“Niall ―”

Niall rears away then, takes one hand off of Harry’s ass and moves it around, shoving it beneath the band of Harry’s boxers powerfully; he grabs the tip of Harry’s erection, gathers the precum there and uses it as lubrication, slicking Harry’s cock with the cream as he drags down, as he drags up, over and over and over, pulling the foreskin down to press his finger into the slit after each pass he makes.

“C’mon, Harry,” Niall says, prompts; Harry’s moving still, hard and fast and soft and quick, and he’s gripping at Niall’s cheeks as if they’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the here and now ― reality is perfect, is a dream come true, and he’d rather not leave this world they’ve created with one another between the sheets. “Come so I can eat it all up.”

Harry drops his head on Niall’s shoulder, lets out a muffled growl; his orgasm hits, and his body shakes, shudders and stutters, and his hips buck stiffly, messily. He cries, sobs against Niall’s shirt, mouths dryly at the fabric as he’s overtaken with all sorts of fuzzy feelings ― and it feels good as he comes, as he unleashes his cum, as the spunk fills Niall’s hand up and coats his fingers just like in his dream.

“Oh my God.”

“Not God, just me,” Niall replies, and there’s a hint of pride, a tinge of boastful arrogance in his voice as he pulls his hand back, allows the waist of Harry’s boxers to snap against his tender skin in a way that stimulates his abused senses; Harry lifts his head, takes his hands off of Niall and wipes the tears of bright brilliance out of his eyes so he can see without the smear of pleasure. Harry blinks, and abruptly Niall’s hand is held up between them, and there’s cum on his fingers ― _a lot_ of cum that’s creamy, that’s thick, that looks delicious enough to eat for the rest of his life. “Wanna share with me?”

And he never thought he would be licking his own cum off of somebody else’s fingers, but ― but _fuck_ , it’s so damn hot and tantalizing and sensual and _intimate_ , and Harry can’t say no, won’t say no.

_Never._

Harry nods, breathes in deeply; Niall brings his hand up, captures Harry’s gaze with his own and doesn’t let go as he sticks his tongue out, as he curls his muscle around a single finger and slurps at the creamy cum, inviting Harry to join.

He jolts forward, grabs Niall’s wrist with his fingers and tangles their free hands together atop the sheets; he drops his tongue out, leans in and circles Niall’s digit dirtily, deliciously ― and Harry’s cum is salty and Niall’s finger is sweet and their tongues touch and dance and curl and slide, and they’re kissing then as eating the gritty cream, and Harry’s heady, intoxicated and invigorated and inebriated from the taste of his spunk in Niall’s mouth as he licks it up, up, up.

_Holy shit._

Niall pulls back with a yummy grin that Harry wants to fuck off. “How long does it take you to get hard again?” Niall asks, quiet and kind of scratchy as he licks the remaining stickiness of Harry’s jizz off of his fingers.

Harry blinks. “What?”

“I want you inside me,” Niall explains, drops his sticky-clean hand ― and he’s pink and red now, blushing with a glow that makes Harry feel as if he’s staring in the sun, and how Niall can go from sexy and forward to soft and sensitive the next moment really floors Harry in the best of ways. “How long does it take you to get hard again?”

“What about ― what about lube?” Harry asks, ignores Niall’s question; if they keep up talking like this, painting an image of Harry smoothing his hands over Niall’s body as he pushes inside, it won’t take long for him to harden again. He’s already feeling his prick growing, anyway. “And don’t you want to top? I would’ve ― I thought you wanted to be the one inside of me.”

Niall shakes his head, reaches his hand up and combs through Harry’s hair. “One day, yeah,” he replies, “but not right now. You know what you’re doing ‘cause you’ve been inside somebody before, and I don’t want to go off before you can come.”

“But it’s going to _hurt_ you, Niall,” Harry whines, frowns as he moves atop Niall’s lap; he feels Niall’s erection, feels the heat and hardness, and it’s a scream, a yell, a holler into the darkness that’s dragging him out from the black that’s consuming his vision rapidly. “It’s gonna hurt you, and you may not even get to come, and I ― I don’t want to make you hurt.”

“It’ll hurt no matter who I do it with,” Niall counters, and the thought of Niall with another person, spread out on a bed with kiss-red lips and pink nibbles all over his bare body as he’s being eaten dirtily by somebody who _clearly_ knows what they’re doing makes Harry grow hard in all the wrong ― and right ― places. “I’d rather hurt with you than anybody else.”

Harry sighs, drops his shoulders as the rough animosity eases from his body and he’s left at peace from Niall’s words. “How come you know just what to say to make me feel like everything’s okay?”

Niall shrugs. “’Cause I know you,” he retorts, blinks, and he’s touching Harry so softly, so gently, so tenderly and lovingly, and Harry’s heart is crying with total adoration and affection and admiration for the man whose lap he’s sat on. “And everything is going to be okay. It will be, Harry.”

“Promise.”

Niall nods. “Promise, pet.”

Harry leans close, puts his lips to Niall’s forehead and drags his mouth across Niall’s face till he’s at Niall’s ear, nibbling at the lobe as Niall tears aggressively at the waistband of Harry’s boxers. “Get off the bed ‘cause I wanna suck your dick, baby.”

And Niall nods, pulls in a breath and pushes Harry off of his lap easily; he scrambles from the bed, stands on shaking legs next to the mattress, and Harry moves to his feet, too, drops to his knees and blinks up at Niall as he sits comfortably on his hunches.

Niall looks down, meets Harry’s eyes as he fingers the hem of his black shirt nervously, trying to wipe the giddy grin of excited arousal that’s tenting his boxers, that’s got his length so hard it’s straining, dampening the front of his underwear with a wet patch that Harry wants to lick and lick and lick.

“I like you when you’re on your knees.”

Harry laughs. “Only when I’m on my knees?” he asks, teases, and Niall groans, jerks his shirt and reveals the creaminess of his shoulders. “Take it off, Niall. Take your shirt off.”

Niall does as Harry says, pulling the shirt up and off, crumbling it in his hands and throwing it somewhere unimportant; his tummy is kind of round and his chest is sort of hairy and his nipples are hard, and he’s the epitome of beauty, of grace, of love.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry says, more to himself than Niall, and moves forward on his knees, brings his hands up to rest on either of Niall’s hips. “You’re okay with this?”

Niall puts his hands in Harry’s hair, curls his fingers through the tangles there. “I am, yeah,” Niall replies, nods, pressing his hips forward and dragging his clothed groin across Harry’s face, across Harry’s mouth tantalizingly, too tempting to be pure. “Open up and take me out so I can fuck your mouth.”

Harry shivers, shoves his fingers in the front of Niall’s boxers and pulls them down just a bit; he springs up, slips free, and he’s long and thick and red and mean-looking, and Harry knows from experience that the coarseness is soft, that the stickiness at the tip tastes like hot molasses on his tongue.

He drops his mouth open, shuts his eyes; with one hand, he holds Niall still, gripping his fingers around the base, as the other rubs Niall’s hip, drawing useless little doodles on his skin. His mouth wraps around the tip, suckles at the head; his tongue slurps at the precum and his body gives a sudden jolt as the sweet jizz slips down his throat.

Flicking his tongue, Harry uses his spit to lubricate Niall’s length so he can move down, down, down; his mouth is hot and Niall’s cock is even hotter, and he taps Niall’s hips, nods his head and opens his eyes, meeting Niall’s as a signal, as a wordless gesture and a dirty plead.

_Fuck my mouth, baby._

Niall flexes his fingers, grips Harry’s head and holds him still as he pulls out, as he pushes in; Harry relaxes his jaws, breathes evenly through his nose as Niall’s tip tickles the back of his throat, as he reaches up between Niall’s legs and jerks his underwear completely off.

There’s noise leaving Niall’s mouth, and they sound like stars exploding, like planets colliding, like ocean waves crashing; he’s slow and gentle and sloppy and uncoordinated, and Harry is resilient and tough, swallowing around Niall’s length and curling his tongue along the hardness each time he pushes inside, each time he eases out.

And ― and it’s the eye-contact, the bridge of mind and body and soul, the influx of trust and understanding and determination and willpower that has Niall pulling nearly out, that has Niall coming in Harry’s mouth.

 _Hard_.

And it’s a sour smell, really, but Niall tastes good ― _so good_ ― and Harry eats everything Niall’s giving him, holding the spunk in his mouth till Niall’s finished, till Niall’s body is a boneless vessel of spasms and electric shocks that match the thunder in Harry’s blood and the lightning in his heart.

“Harry?” Niall gasps, breathes raggedly. “Are you okay?”

Harry nods; his mouth is full, and it feels like there’s cum and spit leaking from the seams of his lips like there’s tears falling from his eyes.

“Are you gonna swallow?”

Harry shakes his head this time, using the leverage he has on Niall’s hips to spin him, to shove him onto the bed as he stands, towering over Niall’s body as he moves to situate himself face down on the sheets.

“Harry?”

Harry hums, wipes at the water on his face; he removes Niall’s underwear completely, smells the yummy little patch of wetness on the front before tossing them to the side and uses his hands to spread Niall’s cheeks ― and there’s a bit of hair there, of course, thick and dark, and his hole is puckered, clenching around air, it seems, and Harry just wants to be inside of him already, just wants to drag all sorts of dark pleasure out of Niall already.

_Fuck._

Harry leans down, noses around Niall’s bum for a moment before opening his mouth, allowing a bit of the cum to seep into Niall’s crack, into Niall’s hole as Niall lets out a prolonged moan of surprised ecstasy, grabbing one of the pillows and biting the fluff to keep in his noises; Harry pulls away, eases a finger inside of Niall’s hole, and ― and it’s tight and ribbed and warm and wet, different enough from a vagina that Harry feels lost, kind of, but altogether found and all-knowing at the same time, too.

He listens to Niall’s noises, catches Niall’s stuttered breaths as he continues to go deep, moving the finger in and out in tune with their synchronized heartbeats. Harry leans down, spits the rest of the cum and saliva onto Niall’s hole and adds another after a moment, goes slow, slow, slow as he pushes inside, scissoring his digits and widening Niall as much as he can, as much as is possible.

“Oh, Harry.”

“You okay?” Harry asks, breathless and sticky; his boxers are a hindrance against his erection, and they’re offering a bit of friction as he pulls out, as he adds a third finger. “You’re not in pain?”

Niall shakes his head. “Feels weird,” he answers. “But I’ve done this to myself a few times, and it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It’s just ― it’s a lot of pressure, and it feels like it has nowhere else to go but deeper inside of me till I’m full.”

Harry shuts his eyes, growls low in his throat. “You’ve fingered yourself before?”

“I have to stay clean, Harry.”

_Bloody fuck._

“I’d love to watch the next time you decide to clean, okay?” Harry replies, and he’s chuckling, just a bit, but he isn’t joking ― the idea of Niall getting off to his own fingers inside of his bum is an image that causes a gush of precum from Harry’s cock.

“Okay.” Niall nods, looks over his shoulder and meets Harry’s hazy eyes. “That’s okay.”

Harry smiles, gives Niall a grin of encouragement; he pulls his fingers out, admires the mixture of spit and cum for a moment before flipping Niall over carefully, easily. “Face to face, yeah?” he asks, flicks his eyes to meet Niall’s as he maneuvers out of his underwear, as he uses his hot precum as natural lubrication.

Niall nods. “Please.” He widens his legs, reaches down for his thighs and holds his lower half up in the air; his length stands tall and proud and ready. “Please, just ― just do it. Just do it.”

_Yes, yes, yes._

“I don’t have a condom, but I’m clean,” Harry announces, gripping the base of his erection as he presses the tip to Niall’s weeping entrance. “I promise I’m clean.”

Niall smiles, shuts his eyes and relaxes the muscles of his body; Harry presses inside just a bit, and it’s a tight squeeze around his tip that makes his body turn red, red, red.

“S’okay, Harry. Wanna feel you fill me up, anyway.”

Harry moans, whimpers ― and then he’s pushing down, pushing in, passed a thin ring of muscle that gives way and allows Harry inside, and Niall’s wet and hot and tight and Harry is at a loss for words, so overcome with a frank kind of emotion, kind of pleasure that has him soaring.

Niall is tight, and he’s sucking Harry in and trying to push him out, too, and it’s a different kind of heat, a different kind of wetness, and Harry’s glad they’re doing this now, glad they’re doing it together ― because it would not mean what it means now with somebody else in the future.

“Niall?”

“It hurts.”

Harry drops down, swats Niall’s hands away from his thighs and interlaces their fingers. “I won’t move,” Harry says, swears, as he kisses across Niall’s face; Niall’s grip is tight on his fingers, and he’s afraid his bones are going to snap in two from Niall’s strength. “I won’t move till you’re okay.”

Niall whimpers, moves his hips, and pleasure shoots through Harry and pain mangles Niall’s system, and Harry pushes down to keep Niall still. “It’s just ― it’s so _uncomfortable_ ,” Niall whines, throws his head to the side; Harry’s lips fall against his neck, and he tries to ignore the fact that Niall has grown soft against his tummy. “It’s uncomfortable and it hurts.”

“Do you want me to pull out?”

Niall shivers, shakes his head. “No,” he replies, and the single word is heavy with unshed tears. _Oh, baby_. “Just don’t move for a moment, please.”

Harry nods, kisses at Niall’s sweaty neck ― and he’s sweating, yes, but there’s gooseflesh on his skin, too. “Will you let me do this?” Harry asks, whispers the words in Niall’s ear. “Will you just let me do this?”

Niall hums, nods his head. “You can move,” he says after a strained moment, and Harry lets out a breath of relief as he pulls back slow, as he pushes inside just as tender; Niall’s breath is hitching as Harry moves, and eventually the tightness of Niall’s muscles eases and he’s fluid and pliant beneath Harry.

“Oh, baby.” Harry opens his mouth, sucks at Niall’s neck in hopes that it’ll deflect the pain in his rear; he bites and nibbles, kisses the pain away as best he can as he sails on an ocean of feel-good supernovas. “Oh, Niall.”

Niall moans ― Niall moans, and it’s the first one, the first noise of pleasure since this has started, and he lifts his legs a bit, wraps his thighs loosely around Harry’s waist as Harry dicks in and out at a steady, easy pace.

“Feel good?”

Niall grunts, brings his hands up over his head, and Harry follows, grappling to intertwine their fingers because he’s flying and Niall’s going under, and they can’t be removed from one another at a time like this.  

“Feels better,” Niall replies, and Harry rolls his hips, changes the angle at which he’s thrusting; he feels something, and a second later Niall’s letting out a shocked groan as he arches off the bed, as he molds himself against Harry in a way he never has before.

Oh. Harry found it.

Harry shuts his eyes, kisses across Niall’s face till their lips are touching; he’s in and out, in and out, in and out, at the same speed, at the same pace, and Niall’s hard again, rubbing between his tummy and Harry’s, and Harry feels heavy, feels ready to burst, and he’s about to come, about to let it all go.

“Niall ―”

“Do it,” Niall cuts him off, nods his head. “Come inside me, Harry.”

And Harry does.

He tears his fingers from Niall’s, puts his hand on the small of Niall’s back to keep him there, to keep him raised, and Harry explodes, whimpers and cries and whines and sobs against Niall’s neck; Niall milks him for all he’s worth, for all he’ll ever be, and Niall’s wet, wet, wet and it’s leaking out of him and onto the sheets, and Harry loves the stickiness, loves the rawness, loves the jumbled mess of exhausted limbs and softening souls.

“Harry?”

Harry hums, brings his face up. “Yeah?” His voice is hoarse, and Niall wipes the tears off of his cheeks as he smiles, as he grins around the tightness of his face.

“You’re so pretty, Harry.” Niall strokes his face, combs his hair. “I love you.”

Harry flushes, looks down, sees that Niall is hard and angry from a lack of release; he leans close to press a kiss to Niall’s lips before pulling out as slow and as gentle as he can. Niall hisses, follows Harry’s retreat against his will as a splash of cum ruins the sheets, and Harry slides down the bed, grasps Niall’s length with one hand while the other finds Niall’s fingers again.

He holds Niall’s hand as he kisses the tip, as he mouths at the slit, as he sucks on the head and goes down, swallowing around the head and mouthing at Niall’s pubic bone ― and Niall’s coming seconds later, short and sweet and ragged, and his yowl of fulfilment pierces the air and tattoos itself on Harry’s skin.

Harry pulls off, swallows the jizz and licks his lips; he grabs the sheets he brought in with him, undoes them as well as he can and lays down, pulling the silky fabric over their bodies as they come close and cuddle together in a post-coital cocoon of nirvana.

Niall lays against Harry’s shoulder, puts his mouth against Harry’s sweaty skin; he’s content and his body is shaking as he nestles close, and Harry holds him tighter than he’s ever held anything else before. “I don’t want anybody if I can’t have you, Harry,” he says, whispers, and it’s dawn now, and there’s some yellow light ghosting through the curtains, covering their bodies as they hide away between the sheets from a world neither want to return to.

“I love you, Niall ― only you,” Harry says, and he likes the way the words feel on his tongue because they’re the most truest thing ever spoken; he rubs Niall’s skin beneath the sheets till he’s sleepy, till he’s too full of love to move from the spot he’s found himself in, till all of the goosebumps on Niall’s body are gone and Harry can breathe clearly for the first time in days.

 

 


	45. forty-five

Delicately, softly, Harry runs the tips of his fingers along Niall’s sweat-dampened spine even after the gooseflesh has disappeared, even after the tiredness has passed, tickling across the skin as if it’s fine porcelain, glossy and sparkling and so, so easy to break beneath even the slightest bit of pressure ― which is weird, you know, because porcelain is strong enough to act as teeth, strong enough to act as enamel, and they are considered the most durable part of a body for a reason, Harry reckons.

Niall ― Niall is the strongest part of the body, of Harry’s body. Niall is _porcelain_ and Harry is a man in need of a fix.

The yellow light of daybreak is shining through the windows, complementing the colros of Harry’s heart, and that amalgamated with the shadowy illumination from the bedside lamp gives Niall a glow, gives Niall a shimmer of sparkly delight, and ― and he’s just as pretty as porcelain, too, and Harry’s never seen somebody look so beautiful, so breathtaking in the morning with bags under his eyes from lack of sleep before and cheeks tinted red from losing his virginity, either.

Niall is pale and bumpy and full of flaws, a bit hairy in places and clean-shaven in others; his skin is fair but unevenly tanned in the strangest spots, and there’s speckled freckles dotting along his shoulders ― and they’re sweet, cute, adorable, by the way, and Harry loves poking at the little things more than he’ll admit; he has a fetish for all the parts of Niall’s body Niall thinks is wrong, but, in Harry’s eyes, Niall’s nothing but _right_ ― adding to the unproportioned man that’s lying next to him, face shoved in Harry’s shoulder as he attempts to calm his radical breathing, as he attempts to gather as much warmth as Harry can offer. 

“Are you all right?” Harry asks softly, quietly, and his tone matches that of the room: spent and sweaty and dark and warm and yellow, full of love and satisfaction. Soft and tender and evoking and thrilling ― absolutely _thrilling_. “Niall? You okay?”

“Yeah. ‘M fine.” Niall’s words are muffled by Harry’s shoulder, but his arms are tight around Harry’s torso and Harry can feel the beat of Niall’s heart against his skin: thump, thump, thump. It’s calming, soothing, and Harry doesn’t feel like a mess, like a screw-up ― what he and Niall did was make love, was show each other that they’re all that matters to one another in this world. “I’m okay.”

Harry nods once, taking Niall’s word for it even though he doesn’t necessarily believe it. It was their first time together, becoming one, and Harry was gentle, he knows he was, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. In fact, Niall even said it _hurt_. There’s quite a large chance Niall’s going to be in pain for the next few days, especially since he was a virgin.

Harry just took Niall’s virginity. _Wow_.

And ― and, in a way, Niall kind of took his, too. And the connection, the bridge between them is strong, has gone through so many storms, so many hurricanes and tornados and monsoons, and it’s too tough to be blown away.

“Are you sore?”

“No,” Niall mumbles, voice blurred by Harry’s shoulder still, and how the hardness makes a good headrest Harry doesn’t know; Niall leans up a bit and presses a kiss comfortably to Harry’s skin before lying back down on a pillow off to the side, facing away from Harry. “Do you think I will be?”

When Niall’s walking down the aisle ― by himself, you know, because he’s the best man and the maid of honor, too, it seems ― he’s going to be sore. Of course he’s going to be sore, and Harry’s eyes are going to be on Niall’s the entire time, before he says no and after he says no, as well.  

“Later on today? Yeah. Maybe ― probably.”

“Oh.”

Harry really wishes Niall would raise up and scoot a bit closer, cuddle into his side and share his body warmth because Harry’s feeling more than a little upset about it, more than a little shredded. He’s of a mind that after you finish making love ― or having sex, or fucking, or whatever you want to call it, but that’s what Harry’s going to call it; he and Niall _made love_ ― you stay as close as possible to one another without actually being part of each other.

“I’m okay, though, H,” Niall says, whispers, and Harry’s _heart_ ― it’s a mess in his chest, and it scares him how quick it sometimes beats, how slow it sometimes thumps. “This was bound to happy one way or another, and I’m glad it was with you. It ― honestly, it wouldn’t have been with anybody but you. I love you, a lot, and I wanted to give you this.”

Harry frowns, chewing on his bottom lip. He’s hot from his and Niall’s activities, still a bit out of breath from the escapades that went on forty-five minutes ago ― he took a small, short nap somewhere in between then and now, he thinks ― but he’s quickly growing cold at Niall’s lack of emotion and conversation. It’s helping Harry’s insecurities none. After all, this was his only time, too, compared to Niall’s first, as well, and it was good, amazing, groundbreaking for Harry ― there isn’t enough words in any language to describe just how fulfilling it felt to become one with the man he loves more than himself ― but maybe it wasn’t very good for Niall.

Maybe that’s way he’s giving Harry the cold, emotionless shoulder ― maybe Niall didn’t enjoy it on the same level Harry did.

He came, though. Niall came ― after Harry sucked him deep in his mouth, though.

Hmm. Maybe Harry did fuck up somewhere, and Niall was only putting on a face, an act, and ― and if that’s the truth, if that’s the honest fact, Harry regrets it.

Harry regrets taking Niall’s virginity because he’s scared, because he’s terrified he hurt Niall physically, hurt Niall emotionally, hurt Niall mentally.

“Niall?”

He doesn’t know what to do. If he hurt Niall in the way he’s thinking _, he doesn’t know what to do._

“Yeah?”

Harry gulps, moves his hand up and rolls his body close for a round of sticky-sweet spooning. “Was it good?” he asks, stilling his fingers on the top of Niall’s shoulder; they turn cold, as if Niall’s chilly attitude is sucking the warmth right from his body, and ― and he’s scared. He’s really fucking _scared_. “I mean, was I good? Were you okay? Did you enjoy it? I ―”

“Relax, Harry,” Niall cuts Harry’s vacillating rambling. He lifts his head from the thick pillow, turning his heavy, half-lidded eyes to meet Harry’s straight on, and they’re blue and blown wide and Harry won’t ever have to visit the ocean because nothing can compare to the waves he rides whenever he looks in Niall’s gaze. There’s a small smile on his kiss-swollen lips, too, and it makes Harry absolutely melt; maybe he hasn’t messed up as royally as he first thought. “It was good, yeah. And it hurt, but I knew it was going to.”

“Did I… Did you not… Did you not enjoy it?”

“I did.” Niall nods, and his smile grows somewhat. “I did. I loved every single second of it. Just… quieter, I think. And between the sheets, too, ‘cause they somehow got wrapped ‘round us. You can’t really tell, though, but we do need to wash them before we take off later his evening.”

“Oh.” Harry’s eyes widen and he turns his face away, burning from the crown of his head to the tip of his toes in a full-bodied blush. “I didn’t know I was loud.”

Niall shrugs, a movement Harry can see out of the corner of his eye as he stares up at the shadowed ceiling, counting the splayed darkness that covers the white; everything is yellow, yellow, yellow, and Harry now identifies that color with weird sadness, with muted joy, and he doesn’t want to be that hue anymore.

“You weren’t too loud, I don’t think. Louis says you moan like a porn star, but you don’t, and even if you did, everybody in the house is too shitfaced to wake up for another few hours. You’re just… louder than me, is all.”

“Why weren’t you loud, Niall?”

“I didn’t know I could be.”

Harry turns his face toward Niall’s, furrowing his brows. His eyes roam Niall’s pretty face, taking in the bit of hair that’s sticking to his sweaty forehead and the freckles at the tip of his nose and the rosy hue to his cheeks and the wideness of his pupils, the wildness of the raging ocean inside. His gaze settles on Niall’s lips, and he sees that they’re swollen and wet, red with a hint of purple on the bottom corner.

And Harry knows that Niall bit his lip to keep from crying out, from whining and moaning and groaning and whimpering, and how Harry didn’t realize Niall was keeping everything inside is beyond him, but he wishes he would’ve caught it so he could hear Niall scream and scream and _scream_.

 _Fuck_ being loud ― Lauren’s going to find out that he loves Niall sometime today, anyway, and allowing her to walk in on him and Niall as they coil and curl and collide to become one probably isn’t the best way to come out to her, but Harry wouldn’t chase after her if she saw, if she ran, if she never came back.

Niall would, though, and that’s why ― that’s why Harry has to break things off with her in a timely, gentle manner. If he doesn’t, her heart will shatter before it has time to break, and Niall will run for her like Harry chased him down after he said yes to Lauren’s proposal.

He shouldn’t have said yes. He shouldn’t have said yes because, if he hadn’t, they wouldn’t be here ― they wouldn’t be hiding, wouldn’t be lying, wouldn’t be cheating, wouldn’t be allowing the sheets to cover up what’s transpiring between them because both care too much for Lauren to come out.

He just ― he just should have said no, but he didn’t, and now they’re here, and the sheets have become a strange sort of castle for him and Niall to rule, to be kings in, and their blistering emotions are the people, and it’s weird, you know, but Harry’s glad he and Niall are in this mess because it’s testing their bond, strengthening their love.

There’s good things in the bad, of course; you just have to look.

“It’s okay to be loud, Niall,” Harry says, pursing his lips as he tries to understand why Niall thought it wasn’t okay to voice his pleasure. Harry did ― Harry always does. He liked being able to scream, to yell, because he felt as if he vocalizing his ecstasy soothed the pressure in his abdomen that threatened to rip him apart, and he doesn’t care if somebody heard. _Let them_ ― they don’t know what goes on between the sheets, anyway; the love Harry has for Niall, the love Niall has for Harry can’t be understood, can’t be heard, can’t be felt. It can only _be_. “I think… I’d prefer if it you were loud.”

Niall’s nose crinkles, and Harry fights back the urge to lean over and kiss the tip because he’s just _so cute_ even when he’s giving Harry pains. “Why?”

“’Cause it tells me how I’m doing, if I’m making you feel good or not. It means that you can’t do anything but yell ‘cause you’re just… consumed by the pleasure. By everything. By me.” Harry smiles tenderly, returning his fingers back to Niall’s back and ghosting them across the warm skin; Niall shivers and burrows further into the sheets, laying his head back on the pillow as he meets Harry’s eyes with a glazed, exhausted gaze, and the goosebumps are back and they’re more prominent than ever. “Next time, will you be louder? To let me know that you’re okay?”

“There’ll be a next time?”

Harry’s fingers freeze halfway down Niall’s back. “What do you mean?”

Niall blinks languidly, tiredly, keeping his gaze steady with Harry’s. “I mean… I thought that this would be just a quick thing, ya know? That you’d just push me aside after you got what you wanted. I mean, you’re getting married later today, after all. I know you love me, but you only show me when we’re between the sheets, and you fight for me when all the doors are closed, too.”

“But I ― I’ve given up so much for you, Niall.”

So much ― Harry can’t comprehend how much. He’s given up his stability, his security, his strength, his idea of the world; he’s given up his past, given up his present, given up his future, and he doesn’t regret that, at least.

Harry loves Niall, and Niall loves Harry, and they shouldn’t be having this conversation. They shouldn’t be roasting each other right after they’ve made love for the first time, right before Harry’s going to say no for the last time.

“So?”

Harry shakes his head, a bit offended at the way Niall seems to perceive him ― Harry isn’t a fake, and he isn’t a fraud, either, and he’s done a lot of questionable things lately, yes, but he loves Niall, and he’ll never care for another the way he does Niall. Niall ought to know that ― Niall does know that.

“I didn’t do that just to get in your pants, Niall,” he says, voice heavy with livid conviction. He moves his hand up and grips Niall’s shoulder, digging his blunt nails into the skin, and the gooseflesh offers a layer of protection against Harry’s scalding temper. “I mean, yeah, I wanted to have sex with you at first, I guess. Especially after what happened in the toilet at the mall. But the more time I spent with you, the more that urge just… went away, I guess. Sex is good, okay, but it isn’t everything and I think I quite like being with you this way, naked and touching and laying with one another but in the most innocent of ways. This is intimacy, and I like intimacy better than I do sex because it means more.”

“So if we never have sex again, you’ll stay with me?”

Harry doesn’t even hesitate, has the audacity to laugh a little bit. “Of course. I care about you, a lot. I love you, so much, and you’re the only one in the world who’ll ever understand how I feel for you ‘cause you feel the same way about me.”

Niall takes his bottom lip between his teeth and bites, but soon releases it with a wince as he hits his bruise. “You’re serious?” he asks, batting his lashes, and Harry has to hold his tongue to keep from yelling at Niall.

But he kind of does, in the end. Yell, that is.

“I really love you, Ni ― I mean, I really fucking love you, okay?” Harry says, and a smile curls up his lips as Niall’s dazed blue eyes mist over with a cloud of comfort, of relief, of alleviation that Harry didn’t know he needed, too. Harry wants it all ― he wants to taste Niall’s lips before toothpaste and kiss his skin before sunshine and cuddle with him before coffee. Harry wants Niall. “And I also want to kiss absolutely every inch of you.”

Niall swallows, but he smiles. “I think I want you to do that, too. After I’m not as sore, of course.”

“I want to be with you, Niall,” he says, releasing his grip of Niall’s shoulder and moving his hand up to Niall’s hair, combing through the thickness. “I want us to be together.” Harry’s putting entirely too much on the line ― of course he wants to be with Niall till the end of time. “If you want to be with me in the same way that I want to be with you.”

“You little shit,” Niall says, giggling and rolling his eyes as he leans into Harry’s loving touch. “Of course I want to be with you. I can’t explain it, but you just do something to me. It’s like, whenever I’m with you, I’m awake. I see everything and I feel everything and I taste everything and I _am_ everything. Of course I want to be with you. _Of course_. And ― and it doesn’t matter that you’re about to get married or that it’s to my cousin ‘cause I have you and you have me and you’re going to tell her no and that’s all we’ll ever need.”

The smile that breaks out across Harry’s lips is a little bit too big, a little bit too wide, and it’s making his jaw ache, but he shakes off the discomfort and tugs Niall closer, pressing their mouths together in a tender, gentle kiss; their tongues meet and dance and play as if they’re mates that have been with one another forever, allowing primal need and touch to guide their connection. It’s warm and sticky and sweet, and kind of sloppy and wet with mixed saliva and the residual taste of bitter cum and morning breath, but it makes Harry vibrate, makes him feel as if he’s soaring on the wings of eagles.

He feels invincible with Niall, like he can take on the world and the universe with a smile, with open arms.

Niall pulls back with a slurping noise that goes straight to Harry’s groin; it’s still early, barely dawn, and the wedding isn’t for another twelve hours, at least, so there’s time ― there’s time to tell Lauren no, time to go another round.

Or two. Or three or four or five.

“D’you ― do you think we can do this? You and I?”

“Together?” Harry asks, and Niall nods, and he isn’t unsure, really, but he is a hell of a lot more attentive than Harry. There’s no doubt in Harry’s mind, though. “Yeah, I think we can.”

He hopes so, at least ― because, when he tells Lauren no and Niall runs after her, there’s no security that Niall is going to come back to him.

-

“I’m gonna tell her no, you know.”

Niall looks up, finishes fiddling with the lapels of his button down; he and Harry are in one of the back rooms of the church that isn’t used much (it’s dusty and kind of stinky, too) and Louis and Liam are stood outside the door, waiting ― impatiently ― on the two of them to dress. They were a bit late to the church, having been held up because all Harry wanted to do was eat and eat and eat Niall now that he’s got a taste of what it’s going to be like.

Nobody was counting, but Harry knows Niall came several times more compared to his three, and ― and sex isn’t everything, no, and it should only be done when both parties are ready for the connection it always brings, in Harry’s opinion, but love is the world and Harry’s shit at words and Niall’s body is a work of art that he wants to mold, that he wants to sculpt, that he wants to paint till he gets it perfect.

He hopes that he never gets it perfect, though, so he can keep coming back for more. And more and more and _more_.

“When? At the altar?”

Harry looks away, admires the glossy shine of his leather boots ― suede gets stained too easy whenever he’s wearing it, and leather tends to last longer, it seems, and he’s always preferred it to anything else, anyway. “I… I think so,” he replies, whispers and nods. “I think I’ll have to tell her at the altar, yeah.”

“Why then?” Niall stands, smooths his shirt; it hugs his torso well, and Harry’s smitten at the way the creamy pinkness looks on Niall’s uneven skin, at the way the pale color highlights the yellow hues of Niall’s eyes. “You can tell her. You can tell her right now, if you wanted to. She’s right across the church, and you can get into her room if you just tried. It’s only going to get harder the longer you delay it, Harry. Why wait till she’s at the altar and ready to say her ‘I do’s’ before you call it off?”

“I’m not strong enough to do it before then,” Harry replies, and it doesn’t make sense when he says it aloud, really, but ― but to him, it makes the most sense, and even though he and Niall are in love doesn’t mean he has to explain why he is the way he is. “I can’t look her in the eyes and tell her no if it’s just her and me, but if we’re at the altar together ― it’s weird, I know, but if she and I are stood on the chapel with one another, I can do it. I know I can do it ‘cause ― ‘cause I could look at you, and looking at you always makes me feel like I can do anything I want. If I look at you, I can do it.”

It’s stupid. It’s stupid, Harry knows, but it’s a system that he’s figured out, that he’s thought through for a few days, and it’ll work. He knows it’ll work because it’s never not worked. When Harry needed encouragement to walk across the stage for his diploma, when Harry felt pitiful wrapped up in the hospital room after a bad breakup, when Harry when Harry wanted to smile at the world’s irony, he looked at Niall.

He looked at Niall. When the world turns ugly, he just looks at Niall, and it’s okay. It’s all okay.

And it’ll be okay, too. Unless something horrible goes wrong, and that isn’t going to happen. _It isn’t._

“If you need me to go with you to tell her, I will,” Niall says, walking forward; he reaches his hands out, fluffs the messy curls that lay below Harry’s shoulders, focusing his attention on the flyaway tendrils that are flittering about across Harry’s face, and Harry enjoys the way Niall’s also so gentle with him. “It’ll hurt ― seeing me there with you when you tell her no will hurt ‘cause she’ll know I’m part of the reason you don’t love her anymore.”

“Niall ―”

“But if you go alone, and if you do it when it’s just the two of you and nobody else, you don’t have to tell her about me. You don’t have to tell her that you fell out of love with her because you fell in love with me. You don’t have to tell her that. And ― and it isn’t lying, Harry. _It isn’t_. You just aren’t telling her the entire truth. When she asks, just tell her you don’t love her anymore, and that’s the truth. Right?”

Harry nods, thins his lips. “Right.”

“And that should be enough,” Niall presses ― against Harry’s mind, against Harry’s heart, against Harry’s body, and they’re leaning on the wall in a short second, and Harry’s arms are around Niall’s waist and Niall’s hands are tangled in Harry’s hair, messing up what he only just fixed. “You telling her that you don’t love her anymore should be enough. You shouldn’t have to tell her why.”

“And if it isn’t?” Harry asks, blinks as he looks into Niall’s eyes, and they’re wide and Harry’s are, too, and he’s shaking and Niall is trembling and he feels like he can cry, like he can throw up at any time. “What if that isn’t enough for her?”

More importantly ― what if it isn’t enough for Harry?

Niall sharpens his shoulders, holds his posture tight. “You don’t owe her a damn thing, Harry.”

But ― but he does. Harry owes Lauren a lot, owes Lauren _so much._

“I do, though,” Harry insists, and Niall’s hold on his hair is borderline aggressive, a bit too tight to be comfortable, but it’s a reminder that Niall is here with him and he won’t speak up. “If I’m going to be happy, she deserves to be happy, too, and I respect her enough to give her the truth. If she asks why, I’ll tell her. I owe it to her to tell her that the reason I don’t love her anymore is because I fell in love with you.”

Niall sighs. “You aren’t what’s supposed to make her happy, though,” Niall says, and Harry repeats the words in his mind, over and over and over. “She’s going to hurt ― she’s gonna hurt _so fucking bad_ , H ― but she’ll get better ‘cause everything… everything heals. A little scratch heals, a broken relationship heals, a misguided thought heals. Things break, and sometimes they aren’t the way they were before because they’re better than they were before.” Niall smiles, leans close and puts his lips to Harry’s cheek in a kiss that burns. “Bad times don’t last because happiness will always come back. It did for me, and it will for her, too.”

Harry smiles ― or tries to, at least, but he’s fairly sure his heart is too mangled at the moment to be very happy ― and raises one hand, puts it to Niall’s cheek and rubs at the skin there; both of them looked bedraggled and mistreated and high on the feel-good pleasure of being between the sheets for hours and hours and hours, when they scurried into the church after everybody already arrived, hiding hickies and hard-ons that were a result of a rather dangerous drive, and Gemma was kind enough to offer to cover their exhaustion and satisfaction with a thin layer of makeup that they’ll not have much trouble washing off later on today.

He’s very thankful for his sister. She deserves the world, and he wants to give it to her. But maybe that’s his fatal flaw, you know: wanting to give people everything they deserve.

All of that weight shouldn’t fall on his shoulders. He’s only human, and he gets tired and he gets hurt and he gets cranky and he gets upset, and he can’t be perfect, can’t be full of light all the time ― and he shouldn’t have to be, either.

The world is give and take; all Harry’s been doing is giving and giving and giving. He reckons he’s due for a bit of taking now, and he’s going to start with this ― he’s going to start with telling Lauren no when the words should’ve came out of his mouth the night she proposed to him.

“Just let me do this my way, m’kay?” he asks Niall, caresses Niall’s cheek. “I know you don’t get it, and it’s hard to understand, but just let me do it my way, baby, because I know what I want to do.”

Niall shuts his eyes. “I don’t agree with what you’re going to do,” he begins, and Harry’s heart falters just a little bit, “but I’ll stand by you. I’ve got your back, Harry.”

Harry grins, smashes his mouth against Niall’s and kisses him hard, hard, hard; they’re already disheveled anyway, and Niall’s bruised lips are a bit too noticeable to be coincidental and Harry doesn’t think one more joining would matter and ― and really, how has Lauren not caught on yet? How has she not figured everything out yet?

“Love you, Ni,” he murmurs, mutters against Niall’s lips. “Love you loads, baby.”

-

Lauren’s dress was pretty in the photograph she sent to Harry, but seeing her in the long, feather-like gown in person, stood before him with a pink smile and yellow happiness and blue eyes, makes Harry want to crawl in a hall, makes Harry want to wash up on an island to never be found again.

Because Lauren looks good, looks beautiful, of course, but she’s got nothing on Niall’s aura, nothing on Niall’s brilliance, nothing on Niall’s love.

_Dammit._

Harry’s standing tall, standing stiff, and Lauren’s in front of him and their hands are tucked together, held tight, and she smells like vanilla and Harry hates vanilla, loves peppermint and pineapples; the bridesmaids are across from Harry, dressed in baby doll pink gowns that remind Harry of springtime butterflies and rolling meadows of flowers, and the men are behind him, and their shirts match the dresses and they’re pressed together like regimental soldiers backing their captain.

The pews are thick and full and bustling ― there’s old and young, rich and poor, black and white and red and yellow and brown, and they’re all here to see a wedding, all here to see two people who are in love come together, all here to see Harry say ‘I do’ the woman of his dreams and hear her admit her undying love for him in return.

But Harry isn’t dreaming of a woman, of Lauren; he’s dreaming of a man, of Niall.

And ― and they’ll surely have a ferocious reaction when they find that out, huh? For more reasons that one.

On the front row of the left of the expansive church is Harry’s mum and sister and dad and stepdad and cousins and aunts and uncles, and they’re looking at him, staring at him, and Anne is smiling and Gemma looks sick to her stomach and Des is proudly regarding the entire shindig with approving eyes and Robin is doting lovingly on Anne, probably remembering their recent nuptials a few years back.

And on the right is Lauren and Niall’s family, and they’re looking at her, at him, at them, and they’re scary, frightening and intimidating and fearless, and Harry feels small, feels as if he’s a child lost in a congested supermarket trying to find his mum, trying to find his dad, and he doesn’t like being out of control, doesn’t like being empty of regret and void of guilt, doesn’t like being heavy with all the sins he’s committed when he thought he was a saint.

He doesn’t like being put on display for the whole world to see, doesn’t like the thought that marriage is the only logical step after you fall in love with somebody, doesn’t like the idea of binding yourself to one person for the rest of your life in front of people who don’t matter, in the end.

Harry doesn’t want to get married ― to Niall, to Lauren, to anybody. He just doesn’t want to get married. And he shouldn’t have to ― you don’t have to get married if you don’t want to, and he doesn’t.

Because he’s not ready. He’s falling apart still, even after last night and the morning he and Niall shared, and he feels himself slipping from his grasp, from Niall’s grasp ― he’s lost and he’s restless and he’s liberated and he’s relentless and he’s lackluster and he’s rebelling, too, and it’s possible to love somebody without loving yourself, yes, but it isn’t healthy, isn’t fair to subject them to the turmoil of your inner demons.

Harry won’t marry Lauren, and he won’t marry Niall, either.

Not yet, at least. And ― and maybe not ever, you know, because you don’t have to marry somebody to prove to the world, to prove to them, to prove to yourself that you’re in love with them.

The priest is speaking, reading from the Bible, and Harry’s hearing jibber jabber as he looks at his mum, at his sister, at Lauren’s dad, at Kamryn, at Grace, at Niall ― and he has to throw a glance over his shoulder, has to crane his neck, and Niall’s looking at him and he’s looking at Niall, and Louis and Liam and Zayn are, too, and Harry just loves Niall so much and _he can do this._

He can do this.

He turns back around, tugs his hands from Lauren’s hold, and there’s a gasp and he isn’t sure which way it came from. “Lauren, I ―”

“Motherfucker ― _stop the wedding_!”

 

 


	46. forty-six

The thing about hospitals ― and other official buildings and businesses, really, if you wanted to take the time to notice ― is that they are very clean, very thoroughly scrubbed. And bright ― cleaner than clean, brighter than bright. Clean, bright, and cold, and only because of germs and infections, only because a lot of people inside are sick, are dirty, are contagious in ways that they probably don’t even know of, and chillness is one of the best, most effective ways of snipping a few problems here and there before they even start.

However, the waiting rooms, the concession areas that are stocked with snacks that only last so long ― those crowded rooms, smeared with sticky fingers from kids who don’t understand the severity of the reason they are here and painted with washed-away tears and anger and depression that was swept away as soon as another family was emitted ― aren’t all that clean, aren’t all that bright, aren’t all that cold. They’re kind of filthy, kind of dark, and too hot to breathe in, it seems.

Harry feels viscidly ill; he’s having a bad bout of déjà vu.  

This feels ― it feels too much like the day he was arrested, like the day he attacked his friends in the café and was dragged by police officers away, screaming and yelling and apologizing. He was put in a holding cell after being booked, pressed shoulder to shoulder with some rather mean-looking men as well as a few young kids who seemed to only be inside because they attempted to rob a bit of beer from a store, and he was only in there for a few moments, yes, but those are maybe the worst three and a half minutes of his life.

But this ― he’s in a waiting room at the fucking hospital, dressed in a pair of slacks that’s chaffing his inner thighs and a button down with a collar that’s nearly choking off his air and a pair of leather boots that are snapping his toes and a watch that’s pulling at the hair of his arms, and he’s been here for one hour, for two and three and four and five and six and seven hours, and it’s now two in the morning, he thinks, and his hair is greasy and his stomach is begging for food and there’s an ache in the back of his head that makes him see stars.

He’s sat next to Zayn, next to his mum, next to his sister, next to Liam, next to Grace; Zayn is sleeping and Anne is talking on the phone with Robin ― who went back to the hotel after his back began to hurt with discomfort from standing for so long; Des went along, too, and Harry got a text from his dad a few moments ago saying goodnight, saying that he loves Harry and Gemma ― as she quietly relays to him what’s going on and Grace is biting her nails while staring down the corridor toward Kamryn’s room and Liam is sipping at his eleventh cup of cold coffee and Gemma is resting her head on Harry’s shoulder, and she’s stolen his pair of athletic shorts and hoodie, too, from Louis’s trunk that Harry left there after a round of midnight football, and her dress is off and she looks comfy in his clothes with her hair twisted up into a messy ponytail, and Harry’s sorry she’s here.

Harry’s sorry they’re all here, really, and ― and Louis’s family, Kamryn’s family can’t even be here to see the baby girl born.

If he would have only said no, would have only told Lauren from the start that his heart was being stolen, was being captivated, was being rearranged by Niall, they wouldn’t be in this mess ― they wouldn’t be in Ireland dressed for a wedding that isn’t going to happen because one of the bridesmaids went into labor, wouldn’t be at the hospital at two in the morning with purple bags under their eyes and growling tummies that won’t be sated will eight, when the cafeteria opens for business, wouldn’t be teetering on the edge of total hatred and heartbreak.  

And Harry didn’t get to tell Lauren no, didn’t get to ultimately embarrass himself and her, too, and ― and now that Kamryn’s gone into labor, now that nobody’s gathered around for him to draw strength from, now that Niall and Lauren are waiting their turn in the room with Louis and Kamryn as she dilates even further, he isn’t sure if he can do it.

He isn’t sure if he can call off the wedding now.

But ― but it’s kind of already been called off, you know. In a way. Kind of. Just not in words, per se, but actions that fate decided needed to happen.

It was sort of funny how this whole situation came about, too: he jerked his hands out of Lauren’s and opened his mouth to tell her that he couldn’t marry her because he didn’t love her anymore, and then the priest ― _the priest_ ; which kind of makes sense, in a way, because he’s Niall and Lauren’s uncle, and both of them have a rather foul mouth when they’re thoroughly worked with anger ― looked up from his Bible and saw that Kamryn was obliviously soiling herself and the ground and very much panicked.

_Motherfucker ― stop the wedding!_

And the wedding did stop, you know, in a rush, and Harry thinks he still has whiplash from it all: Anne bounded up from her seat and ran toward Kamryn at the same time Louis pushed Harry out of his way to get to his girlfriend, and the priest was still cursing as he closed the Bible and sat the book down; Lauren and Grace and Gemma and the rest of the girls were fussing over Kamryn, and Louis’s language was a colorful rainbow of vividness and Liam and Zayn were searching for their keys and Niall was slipping his hand into Harry’s to interlace their fingers as everything kind of fell apart.

But it all sort of fell together, too, because they took two vehicles ― Harry and Niall were packed tight in the backseat of Liam’s car with Gemma and Anne sat with them and Zayn in the front, and Grace and Lauren were with Kamryn in Louis’s car as he sped to the hospital, and Harry and Niall were able to cuddle, were able to hold one another tight without being seen, without being noticed.

The darkness is an ally at times; not all things that go bump in the night are bad, and Harry quite likes being evil when Niall is his black king of utter nothingness.  

Harry hopes Kamryn’s okay, prays to whatever deity that wants to be listening that Kamryn and the little baby girl will be okay. The baby is early, and he reckons it’s the stress and the flight on the way over here, paired together with a few more equations that he isn’t aware of, that caused her to start having contractions, and though she isn’t as far along as she should be, Harry’s confident in the ability of the staff here to make sure everything is okay, to make sure everything is going to be okay.

Because everything is going to be okay ― everything really is going to be okay because Harry says so.

-

There’s a tap on Harry’s shoulder and he brings his face out of his hands, sees that Niall and Lauren are stood in front of him, and they both look tired, both look beat, both look exhausted beyond belief with purple circles under their eyes and lines next to their pale lips. Harry wants to take both of them in his arms, wants to put his lips to Niall’s forehead and rub Lauren’s back, wants to make them feel a little bit better than they are at the moment because he’s shit at a lot of things but he’s fairly good at taking care of the people he loves.

In his opinion, at least.  

He coughs, clears his throat and stands on a shaky knees that wobble entirely too much as he stretches to regain a bit of feeling. “How is ― how’s everything going?” he asks, moves to the side and gives Lauren his seat as he sidles up beside Niall, covertly brushing his knuckles along Niall’s fingers; he must’ve fallen asleep like that, with his head in his hands, because there’s a dry taste in his mouth and the clock hung up on the blue wall tells him it’s now four-eighteen in the morning.

 _Fuck_. His back hurts and he’s hungry and his feet are aching and his slacks are scratching uncomfortably at his thighs and ― and fuck again.

Lauren sighs. “She’s dilated to a seven now, and the contractions are coming quicker and rougher, too,” she replies, yawns, brings her hand up to wipe at her face; her makeup is smeared and her hair is a wild mess of light brown ringlets, and she still looks just as beautiful now as she did when he first met her at that damned family reunion. Lauren deserves to be utterly adored by a person who will never take her easiness for granted like he has. “She’s hot a lot, and then she’s cold not a moment later, and Louis is running himself ragged with doing for her, going here and there and everywhere. He’s very helpful, ya know, just… just encouraging her and breathing with her and stuff, but it’s hard for her and the baby is going to be here soon, I think.”

 “That’s what the doctor said, at least,” Niall adds, finishes, turns to face Harry, and he his blue, blue eyes are glazed over with itchy tiredness and Harry reckons Niall is definitely sleepier than him. “I can take you back there, if you want to see her before she’s at a ten. Kam adores you, and Louis needs a break.”

Harry nods ― a bit too eager, a bit too enthusiastic, a bit too elated. Everybody in the waiting room is asleep: Gemma and Anne are curled together on a sofa in the corner, Grace and Liam are using one another as pillows in an uncomfortable set of seats, and Zayn is sprawled out on four chairs with his blazer slung over his eyes to fend off the beating light above and he’s been snoring for the last few hours.

“Please,” he says, gushes, grabs Niall’s hand, and he doesn’t care if Lauren sees, doesn’t care if Lauren makes a big deal out of his connection with Niall because he is in love with Niall. _Not her_. And she knows that ― she’s going to know that soon. “Please, Ni. I’d like to see the both of them.”

Niall moves his gaze back to Lauren. “You gonna stay here?” he asks, raises a brow and tucks his hand behind his back, hiding his and Harry’s interlaced fingers from her immediate view.

She nods, bring her legs up and folds them beneath her bum; she’s still dressed in her wedding gown, and Harry gave her his blazer when they arrived at the hospital to keep the chill off of her bare shoulders and back.

“Yeah. I may go get a candy bar and a coffee in a minute. I’m just going to rest my feet for a moment and ring up Louis and Kamryn’s parents to let them know how everything is going.” She smiles, moves her gaze to Harry, and ― and she’s so bloody special, too fucking good for a coward like him, and he knows she’ll be happy, knows she’ll find somebody worth giving all of her love to, and that makes him feel a little bit better for what he’s going to do to her. “I’ll be here when you get back, boys.”

Harry smiles, nods and pivots; he and Niall saunter out of the waiting room, into the corridor, side by side and shoulder to shoulder. The walls are pale pink with dark crimson trims; the lights above are sort of dim and the tiles match, too. Most of the rooms are open, are empty, are clean, and that makes Harry feel a bit of comfort.

“Anne can go home, you know,” Niall says, nudges his shoulder with Harry’s to get his attention. “Her and Gem don’t have to stay here if they don’t want to. They can take Louis’s car or I can call them a cab. Or they can wait till my mum gets here and take hers back home.”  

Harry smiles, leans over and presses his lips to Niall’s temple in gratitude, in loving appreciation; it’s a great quality, in Harry’s opinion, when your partner cares for your family almost as much as you do. “I know, and they know, too,” he replies. “But they want to be here, for some reason. I ― I think it’s because Kam’s mum isn’t here, and my mum doesn’t want to leave her alone. And Gem? She’s just a nosey little shit.”

“Harry!”

“What?” Harry asks, frowns, flinches at Niall’s playful hit to his arms. “What? She told me herself while you and Lauren were back there that this is going to make one hell of a story when she goes back to Oklahoma.”

Niall shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “This will make a sick story to tell one of these days, yes,” he agrees. “We were at a wedding, and then we were at a hospital all dressed up with nowhere to go.”

Harry coughs. “Niall, I ―”

“You were going to say no, Harry,” Niall says, cuts Harry off; Harry thins his lips, furrows his brows. They were just goofing off, acting immature, and now they’re back to the dark, hard parts of their life. “I know you were going to say no. You looked at me and I looked at you and I _knew_. But Kam went into labor and my uncle had a fit and it’s only just delayed the inevitable.”

 _Fuck_.

“Can I ― is there somewhere you and I can go to have a private chat for a minute?” Harry asks, looks around; he’s in need of a quietness, of closeness, of touch, and he needs to tell Niall, needs to ask Niall ― what’s going to happen after Harry ends it? Are he and Niall going to stay together, going to take it slow, going to move on from one another after they’ve had their fill of each other? What’s going to happen? “Like… like a toilet or something?”

Niall blinks, stops. “Um ― yeah.” He nods. “There’s a family restroom next to the vending machines. It’s a single stall.”

Harry nods, tightens his hold on Niall’s hand, striding toward, purposeful and strong and determined, and Niall’s whispering harshly, roughly, asking Harry to stop, begging Harry to slow down, pleading with Harry to quit hurting him, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t stop till he’s at the restroom, doesn’t stop till the door is open, doesn’t stop till he and Niall are packed in tight, doesn’t stop till he has Niall pressed against the wall with his body, doesn’t stop till his hands are ripping at the collar of Niall’s shirt to yield a bit of yummy flesh for his hungry eyes, doesn’t stop till Niall’s legs are wrapped loosely around his waist, doesn’t stop till Niall’s fingers are shoved deeply inside of his hair, doesn’t stop till his tongue is curling around Niall, doesn’t stop till he’s eating Niall up.

He just ― he just _doesn’t stop._

At all.

And he doesn’t want to touch Niall in the restroom of a hospital, doesn’t want to take Niall against the wall of a family stall with dim lighting and an artificial fragrance of orange, doesn’t want to force Niall into doing something he isn’t ready to do.

He just wants to kiss Niall again and again and again, one last time ― he just wants to kiss Niall before Niall doesn’t want to kiss him anymore.

Because that’s probably what’s going to happen when Harry admits that he can’t marry Niall, that he can’t see himself tying the note and changing his last name and sharing a life with somebody before he fixes himself, before he takes care of all the insecurities in his heart.

He doesn’t want Niall to suffer because of him. And ― and Niall may end things with him, may wish to never see Harry again, but that’s okay; Harry doesn’t and won’t ever regret anything that’s happened between the two of them.

Harry’s hands are on the backs of Niall’s thighs, keeping Niall’s legs wrapped around his waist; Niall’s fingers are scratching at Harry’s scalp as his mouth opens wide, as his tongue flattens out for maximum access, as he arches off the wall and undulates his hips salaciously and grinds his groin against Harry’s.

And Harry pulls back, sucks in a tight breath before leaning forward and pressing his face into the crook of Niall’s neck, nosing around till he’s comfortable and cozy and coddled.

“Hi,” Niall says, breathes, giggles, and he’s obnoxiously cute after a hot make out session, really, and Harry’s in love with him to the point of no return. “Where’d this come from?”

Harry shrugs and sighs, allows Niall’s legs to fall from his waist and sets Niall’s two feet back down on the ground. “Just wanted to kiss you, is all,” he answers, flushes, and he’s glad he’s hiding in Niall’s neck because he doesn’t like looking at people when he’s fixing to break their heart.

“Didn’t you get enough of me last night?” Niall asks, laughs, and he’s combing Harry’s hair, pulling out the tangles that hours of worrying the strands have created, and Harry’s easy to please, really, but Niall does it like it’s nothing, like it’s as simple as breathing, and that sort of blows him away. “We went quite a few rounds, H. I don’t even remember the count.”

Harry shivers at the remembrance; he and Niall just kept coming and coming and coming ― and coming and coming and coming, and Harry’s ate more cum last night than he ever thought he would ejaculate, really, but it’s beautiful, too, for so many reasons, and Harry likes how he’s learning with Niall, how Niall’s learning with him, how they’re learning their bodies and their likes and their dislikes with one another.

In fact, Harry likes eating his own cum off of Niall’s fingers and Niall likes it when Harry sucks on his Adam’s apple and Harry likes the way it feels when Niall’s cock is gagging him and Niall likes fucking Harry’s mouth deep and Harry likes when his hair is sticky with Niall’s spunk and Niall likes cuddling naked between the sheets when they’re both too tired to discover any more.

“I can’t ever get enough of you,” Harry says, whispers, pulling back too look at Niall’s face, and Niall’s eyes are wide and adoring, and Harry needs to tell him ― Harry has to tell him before it’s too late. “Niall, I don’t want to marry you.”

Niall frowns. “Harry ―”

“I mean, I’d love to marry you ― quite a lot, actually. I want to marry you, Niall. I’d love to be able to join with you till the end of time, and I’d love to put a ring on your finger that’ll stay there forever, but… but ― but I need help. I’m messed up, and I’m kind of depressed, I think, and lost and out of it a lot, and I don’t want to hurt you because I’m hurting. I don’t want you to hurt because I’m hurting. And ― and I love you. I love you, a lot, and I just ― do you understand what I’m trying to say? Do you get what I’m thinking?”

Niall slants his head, takes his hands out of Harry’s hair and moves them to cup Harry’s cheeks. “If you can, try to calm down, okay? It’s just you and me, and whatever you’re afraid of doesn’t matter when you and I are together.” His fingers rub at Harry’s skin, and it’s a touch that soothes his heart, that nurtures his soul, that mediates his raging temper and dissolving comprehension, and he’ll always be indebted to Niall for all that he is. “Take a deep breath, and explain to me what you’re trying to say, please.”

Harry nods, shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. “After I end things with Lauren, and it’s just you and me, I don’t want to rush into anything with you, Niall,” he says, explains, and opens his eyes; Niall’s face is clear and easy to read, and Harry’s pleasantly surprised to see that Niall has a tiny smile on his pretty, pretty lips. “It’s just ― I love you, Niall, and I want to be with you forever, but I don’t want to marry you right now ‘cause I’m not completely independent and I don’t want a marriage to hold you down if you decide you don’t want to be with me while I fix myself.”

“You’re happy, Harry,” Niall says, rubs the scruff of Harry’s jaws. “You’ve told me you’re happy.”

“I’m happy when I’m with you, when I’m beside you,” Harry elaborates. “If you’re not in the room, I’m not happy. If I can’t hear your voice, I’m not happy. If I can’t see your smile, I’m not happy. And that’s _not good_ ― it’s not good to put all your happiness in somebody ‘cause there’s never a guarantee they’re gonna stay.”

Niall sighs, leans forward and puts his lips to Harry’s forehead, and there’s nobody in the whole entire world who can take care of Harry as good as Niall does, really, and it makes him feel out of control and at peace all at once.

“I’m staying, Harry,” Niall says, determined and strong and defiant. “We don’t have to get married tomorrow or next month or next year ― we don’t have to get married if you don’t want to. But I’m staying with you ― I love you, silly boy, and it isn’t smart to put all your happiness in somebody because there’s a possibility they may not stay, no, but I’m not going to leave you. Ever.”

“D’you mean that?” Harry asks, blinks, and Niall’s hair feels like angel’s wings and Niall’s skin looks like diamonds under fluorescent lights and Niall’s voice sounds like waves breaking over rocks, and that’s love, that’s happiness ― it’s odd and weird and strange and indescribable, but it’s also one of the easiest things in the world to understand because it’s been here since time began. “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course.” Niall nods, pulls Harry close, and their lips are grazing, are touching just barely, and Niall’s breath smells like coffee and chocolate and Harry doesn’t like it but he loves Niall. “I love you, and I have you and you have me, and I’m not going to let you go ‘cause I know you aren’t going to let me go, either.”

“Never,” Harry swears, wraps his arms around Niall’s waist and holds him as tight as he can, as close as he can; their lips brush again, and sparks dance along Harry’s spine and Niall shivers closer. “I’m never letting you go.”

He tilts his face, catches Niall’s lips with his; Niall’s fingers grip Harry’s cheeks and Harry’s hands splay on Niall’s hips, enjoying the fleshy skin there, and Harry feels light, feels weightless, feel as if he’s at the end of the world and ready to walk off into an abyss of nothingness below ― but there’s a person next to him who grabs his hand, who stops his descent, who tugs him back into a hug that breaks walls and cures demons.

It’s Niall.

Niall’s the one keeping Harry from falling off the cliff because he loves Harry, because he understands Harry, because he accepts and supports and encourages and challenges Harry, and Harry is never letting Niall go.

_Ever._

And ― and it all happens kind of fast, really, and maybe that’s a good thing: Harry’s lips are caught with Niall’s and his tongue is curled inside of Niall’s mouth, and Niall’s hands are gripping at pieces of his hair and his knee is spreading Harry’s legs and raising to tickle Harry’s groin, and there’s a gasp, a noise of something falling to the floor and spilling, a curse, and Harry jerks away from Niall in time to see creamy coffee and chocolate peanuts running all over the floor at the feet of someone in a long, feathery gown, and Harry forgot to shut the door, forgot to lock the door.

_Oh, no._

“What the fuck is going on?”

_No, no, no._

“Lauren ―”

“Shut up, Niall ― _shut_ _up_!” Lauren exclaims, stomps her feet, and her face is red and her hair is a mess and her hands are shaking. She’s _shaking_. “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Harry.”

Oh.

“Lauren,” Harry breathes, gasps; he takes a step toward Niall, molds his chest against Niall’s side, and Niall is a tower of strength that he can’t ever let go of. “Lauren, sweetheart, you weren’t supposed to see that. You weren’t supposed to find out this way.”

“Find out what?” she asks, demands, crosses her arms over her chest; she’s breathing hard, breathing heavy, breathing fast and loud and furious, and her voice is a shrillness in the air that makes Harry’s ears ache, that makes his chest burn with mortification. “What was I not supposed to find out?”

_No, no, no._

Harry looks at Niall, meets Niall’s eyes, and ― and Niall’s blue eyes are glossy and Lauren’s face is red and Harry feels green, and those colors can’t combine, can’t come together to make something pretty because none of them are beautiful in this moment. They’re all monsters, all disgraces, and it’s Harry’s fault.

It’s Harry’s fault Niall is blue, it’s Harry’s fault Lauren is red, it’s Harry’s fault he’s green, green, green.

“What was I not supposed to find out?” she asks again, hard and slurred, and Harry’s heart is pounding and his blood is rushing and he’s scared and he’s hurt and he’s afraid of what he’s going to do because he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. “Tell me, Harry ― tell me why I caught you and my cousin kissing in the fucking restroom on the night we were supposed to get married!”

_I don’t have to tell you, I don’t have to tell you, I don’t have to tell you._

But he does.

Harry has to tell Lauren. He owes her the truth.

“Did ― did Niall force himself on you?” Lauren asks, whispers, and her face is still red, yes, but now she’s purple, and Harry doesn’t like the color because it reminds him of sadness, of desperation. She should be yellow ― her and Niall should be yellow like sunshine, like sticky happiness that’s mingling with the lightning bugs of a late-evening picnic in a meadow full of vivid wildflowers. “Or are you… are you cheating on me? Or is it something else?”

Niall makes a noise, a low whine, and his fingers find Harry’s and interlaces with his and they’re gripping tight, tight, tight, and Harry feels as if his bones are about to snap but his physical pain doesn’t compare to the mental anguish he sees on Lauren’s face.

“It’s something else,” Niall says, whispers. “I’m sorry, but it’s something else.”

But ― but Niall has nothing to apologize for. This isn’t his fault, and he has absolutely nothing to be apologizing for.

“I love him, Lauren,” Harry says, admits, and it’s happening so fast, too fast; his emotions are a whirlwind of destruction, of desperation, of despair and dejection and defeat and depression, and he doesn’t want to bring Niall or Lauren down the rabbit hole od destruction with him, but they’re close and that isn’t good. He’s losing his mind, losing himself, and that is not good. “I don’t love you anymore, and ― and I was going to tell you before the priest asked us to say our vows. I don’t love you ‘cause I’m in love with Niall.”

“Grace told me,” Lauren says, quiet and broken, and her eyes are trained on Harry as she shakes her head, as she scoffs a laugh and wipes her face from the tears that began to fall, messing her makeup even more. “Grace told me that Niall had feelings for you and that you were starting to feel the same, and I didn’t believe her. I thought she was joking ― we were pretending we were a couple, anyway, to get away from a horny group of teenage boys at the mall, and I just thought it was a joke.” She stops, takes a breath, and Harry’s heart squeezes. “She told me I should watch the two of you closer, but I didn’t believe her then, either, because it was always the two of you together even before you and I met. I don’t know why I didn’t believe her. I should have believed her ― she’s the only one in this fucking place who can tell the truth.”

“Lauren ―”

 _“Don’t touch me!”_ she yells, screams, and the words hit Harry in the heart, in the chest, and he feels out of breath, feels on the very verge of collapse. “Do not touch me ever again. You’re a monster, Harry ― you’re a _monster_ , and I hate you!”

She’s gone then, pivoting on her heel and taking off down the corridor, and Harry’s rushing forward, slipping in the spilled coffee and chocolate-coated peanuts, and Niall’s pushing him to the side, pushing him out of the way, and he hits the wall, nearly topples over as Niall bounds out of the restroom and down the hallway, after Lauren, without a word to Harry.

Without an apology, without a promise, without a show of anger.

Nothing.

_Nothing, nothing, nothing._

Their steps is all Harry hears, is all Harry feels.

_Nothing, nothing, nothing._

Harry pulls in a shaky breath that rattles in his heart, that shudders in his soul, that constricts disgustingly in his stomach, and straightens, running a hand through his hair and tugging. _Hard_.

He deserves the pain, deserves the hurt, deserves the agony. He’s a monster, after all, and they relish pain, do they not?

Stiffly, emotionless and empty, he turns to the left, begins the trek back toward the waiting room; his heart is in his stomach and his mind is in his throat, and he feels like a monster, feels like a fright that hides under beds and dirty clothes, in closets and basements ready to scare people who least expect it.

And that’s what he is, isn’t he? Monsters ruin dreams, ruin lives, ruin relationships ― Harry’s ruined Lauren’s dream of marrying and spending her life with him, as well as putting a strain on her relationship with her proclaimed favorite cousin.

Harry is a monster.

And ― and monsters bring other people down, too, unintentionally and on purpose.

-

“You had no fucking right,” Harry hisses, seethes as he walks into the waiting room, as he notices that Grace and Anne are the only two awake while Gemma and Zayn and Liam are still snoozing through the hell of it all. “You had _no_ bloody _right_ to tell Lauren that.”

Grace frowns and stands, smooths her hands over her dress to ease a few of the wrinkles from the pretty fabric. “What are you talking about, Harry?” she asks, slants her head; her expression is one of dubiety, of confusion, and she’s good at pretending she has no idea what’s going on, really, and Harry appreciates all that she’s done for Niall, you know, but she’s never liked him and he’s not ever liked her, either.

This right here ― what’s fixing to happen between the two of them has been a long time coming.  

“You know what I’m talking about,” Harry presses, steps forward, and he isn’t going to hit her, no ― the idea of hitting a female, of hitting anybody makes him want to hurl ― but he does want to intimidate her. The thing is, though, he knows that Grace isn’t afraid of anything, least of all a broken man in love on a rampage, and he’s only scaring himself more. “You had no fucking right to tell Lauren what you did.”

“Harry!” Anne exclaims, stands up, and suddenly Gemma’s awake, grabbing her mother’s hand and pulling her back before she asserts herself in the mess. “You do not speak to somebody like that!”

“You don’t understand, Mum,” Harry whines, shakes his head; her chastising ought to make him feel guilty, but all he feels is livid, blinding anger. “You don’t get it. Grace ― Grace did something that I was supposed to do. Grace told Lauren I was fooling around with Niall when I was supposed to be the one to do that.”

Anne’s face falls and she sits down, but doesn’t say anything. What can she say, anyway? She’s known about Harry’s feelings for Niall since almost the very start, as has Gemma; whatever they wish to say he can throw right back in their face, and he will.

Grace’s face soothes, then, and it must’ve clicked in her mind. “I told Lauren that the very first time I met her,” she replies, defends herself, and Harry doesn’t remember when they first met, _dammit_ , but he’s fairly sure it was the time he and Niall came together in the restroom at the mall when they couldn’t get close enough. _Fucking toilets_. “She asked me how I met Niall, and I told her the truth ― that you and Niall were out for a night together, and you two were pretending to be a couple.”

“You told her that I had feelings for Niall.”

“Because you do. Even back then, you did. And she should’ve seen it.”

She should’ve, yes, but ― but it was supposed to be Harry to tell her.  

“You had no right to do that!” Harry screams, grabs at his hair and jerks, and Grace reaches up to take his fingers out of his snarled curls but he steps away before she can touch him. _Don’t touch me_. “You had no damn right to meddle in something that isn’t your fucking business!”

“But it was okay for you and Niall to dry hump in the restroom while Lauren and I were having to thwart a group of rowdy teenagers?” Grace counters, hard and fierce, and Harry’s entire body _shuts down_. _This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening_. “It was okay for you to beg Niall for time only to accept Lauren’s proposal a few hours after you sucked his neck raw and made him think you wanted him? It was okay for you to ditch a party to go back to Niall’s flat and screw around when Lauren was visiting her family? It was okay for you to get in bed with Niall and let him touch you, only to nearly get caught when Lauren and I walked in? It was okay for you to take Niall’s virginity last night when Lauren was right down the hall? It was okay for you to piss off the rehearsal earlier today to sleep with Niall again?”

“Grace ―”

“You’re a hypocrite, Harry,” she seethes, cuts him off, and she’s mad and he’s hurt and Anne is sad and Gemma isn’t protecting Harry like he thought she would. “You think you can’t do no wrong, and when somebody messes up, you’re the first to jump down their throat for it. You’ve been stringing along Lauren and Niall for months because you can’t make up your mind who you love, and, the thing is, you don’t deserve either of them. They’re too good for a monster like you.”

_They’re too good for a monster like you._

Oh. Harry’s a monster. _Harry is a monster_. Okay.

Harry gulps, brings his hand up and wipes his eyes; he isn’t crying because he’s all dried up, because monsters don’t show emotion, but he reckons he would be if he could feel anything other than anger and emptiness.

“Take care of them, Gracie,” he says, pleads, and his voice is small and his heart is black and his soul is oozing out of his body like dark blood, like nasty ichor seeping out from an impaled stake in his chest. “Please make sure they’re okay.”

“Harry ―” Gemma stands up, rushes to Harry, and her face is pale and her eyes are bloodshot, but he shakes his head, gives her a look that says more than words ever will as he turns away from Grace’s crumbling expression and goes to walk out ― of her life, of Lauren’s life, of Niall’s life. “Where are you going?”

He shrugs, sighs, and says, “I don’t really know,” and then he’s gone.

He’s gone, and it’s probably best if he never comes back.

 


	47. forty-seven

The sound of heeled shoes clicking on the tiled floor amalgamates with the noise of dry tears, of heavy breaths, of sticky yells that hang in the air in the same way that glitter infiltrates thick carpet, of swinging doors and beeping monitors and ragged sorrow that lines the walls like tattoos on skin, creating an ocean of misery that Niall is drowning in, that Lauren is drowning in, that Harry is drowning in, that they’re all three drowning in.

And ― and Harry can’t be saved because Niall is going for Lauren, going for the person he knows will break the surface of murky sadness before any of them, but he’s going to lose himself, too, and maybe, just maybe, he and Harry can find each other on the long, long way down.

Because that’s what it is, you know: it’s a long way down from here for the both of them because of what they’ve done, because of what they’ve not done. They should have told Lauren when it all started ― they should have told Lauren the very day Harry threw himself atop Niall and glued their lips together in a passionate, fiery kiss that laid out the foundation for an equally as passionate, equally as fiery love.

Now that Lauren knows, though ― now that Lauren saw Niall and Harry together because _Harry didn’t shut the damn door and lock it_ like he’s preached at Niall, everything is going to go down, down, down.

Their families and friends are all going to think certain nasty things that none of them can refute; they’ll wonder how Lauren never noticed, they’ll wonder what possessed Harry to cheat on his loving and loyal girlfriend, they’ll wonder why Niall allowed himself to be used by the man his cousin loves, they’ll wonder where it all stemmed from, they’ll wonder when it all started, they’ll wonder if it’ll ever stop.

And it won’t. _It won’t_. Niall is in love with Harry and Harry is in love with Niall; Niall doesn’t say it for fun, doesn’t vow his care for Harry to have a laugh, to crack a joke ― he means what he says, and he believes Harry when he speaks up, too, and it’s never going to stop because their love is just a little bit more, a little bit different.

It’s never going to away ― it won’t stop.

Why should it? Why can’t they be happy?

Now that Lauren knows ― now that the wedding is off, more or less, why can’t Lauren move on and find somebody that will love her like she wants, why can’t Niall and Harry have the happy ending together they both deserve?

Why, why, _why_?

Lauren’s fast ― she’s in heels, and they’re kind of small, really, and strapped tight around her feet and colored the lightest shade of pink Niall’s ever seen, and she’s faster than Niall, quicker than Niall, swifter than Niall, and he’s in the boots Harry picked out for all of them last month that are a bit too big. The jacket she’s wearing ― it’s Harry’s, by the way; he isn’t in love with her anymore, no, but he still cares for her more than he can understand, more than Niall can understand, more than she can understand, and that doesn’t irritate Niall one bit because he _saw_ Harry and Lauren together, and the time they spent with one another was _real_ and Harry meant _everything_ ― is hanging off and swinging side to side, baring her shoulders to the chill of the hospital’s corridor.

She’s fast, and Niall’s slow, and Harry’s somewhere behind them, probably crying and probably falling apart and probably losing what’s left of himself and probably fighting with his mind over what he is supposed to do, and Niall’s chasing after Lauren, chasing after the girl who called Harry a monster, who spat in Harry’s face and stepped on all his flowers, who smeared all his painted masterpieces.

_I hate you, I hate you, I hate you._

She couldn’t have known, though. She couldn’t have realized that Harry is in a bad place, couldn’t have realized that Harry is teetering on the edge of no return. Harry wouldn’t let her.

But does she? Does she hate Harry ― or does she hate Niall? Does she hate both of them? Does she hate herself, even a little bit?

 _Oh, God_ ― oh, God, _no_. Niall won’t be able to handle it if she hates him, won’t be able to think straight if she detests him in the way he’s disgusted with himself, in the same way Harry is abusing himself. He knows it was wrong of him, knows it was wrong of Harry, of them ― but you can’t help who you fall in love with, and Niall was in a dark place and all he wanted was a little bit of Harry’s heart, just a little bit, and now he has the whole thing.

Now he has the whole thing, has Harry’s entire heart, and Harry’s the one in that deep, dark, dank and dangerous place, and they need to help Harry get out, need to aid Harry as he finds different ways to fit his life of puzzle pieces back together in an entirely contrasting way than it was at first.

He doesn’t call out for her, though, doesn’t add to the loudness of their barreled destruction; he reckons the interrupted rendezvous at the restroom was enough to startle the place a bit, and he doesn’t fancy adding to the rush of unneeded excitement. He just ― he just doesn’t want to add to the pandemonium, to the stress of it all, you know? Maybe if he’s quiet, if Lauren’s soft, everything will be manageable.

 _Maybe_.

Lauren takes a left, and it’s hard, too; she skids, staggers and slides into a room on wilting heels that twist a bit too awkwardly for his liking, and Niall’s fast enough to shove his foot inside the door before she shuts it in his face, before she closes him out of her life for the moment.

He can’t let her do that ― he can’t let her do that because it’ll only destroy things all the more, and they’re already fucked up enough as it is, really.

“Lauren, please! Just ― just let me talk with you!”

She grunts, swears beneath her breath, tries her hardest to shut the door, to slam him away, but Niall stays still, stays strong, stays solid ― his foot hurts and there’s definitely going to be a nasty bruise on his ankle later on today, but he doesn’t allow her to push him away.

He won’t go.

She gives up, hits her fists against the door and ― and falls, and Niall lurches inside, sick with worry and damned with adultery, and shoves the thing closed and locks it; they’re in a closet, it seems, and the shelves are full of linens and it smells like soft cotton, like wind-dried clothing hanging out to billow in a warm breeze, but Lauren’s on the cold floor and it’s been a snowy February and summer is an illusion in the mind that Niall isn’t sure will ever come around again.

“Lauren?” Niall asks, breathes, whispers; he stays standing, hands shoved deep in his pockets. She’s a pretty princess on the floor, a queen in white lace buckling under the pressure of the kingdom she’s set to rule, and she needs Niall, needs support right now ― Niall promised he would stay with Harry forever, and he wasn’t lying, but Lauren needs him at the moment, and he knows Harry will understand that. “Are you okay? Are… are you hurt?”

Physically, not just emotionally, not just mentally. She did fall, after all.  

She drops her head, keeps her gaze centered on the floor; her legs are tucked beneath her and her hands are in her lap, nervously picking at the feathery layers of her gown as if she wants to rip it all to pieces. “I hate this fucking dress,” she says, hisses, snaps her head up and meets Niall’s eyes. “It’s so damn long and itchy and tight, and the straps hurt my shoulders and my panties are in my ass and I feel really, really fat in it, too. I hate it.”

 _Oh_.

But ― but Lauren isn’t skinny, isn’t little, no, and there’s some pudge on her tummy, on her legs and thighs and arms and waist and hips, and Niall’s never seen her as large, as heavy, as fat. He just sees her as _her_ : a girl with big blue eyes and long brown hair and little pink lips, a woman with a kind heart and steady hands and gentle ways and careful tendencies, a person who laughs too loud and can’t cook worth shit and loves football games in pubs and dislikes people who don’t use their blinker when they’re turning and would rather wear sweats to a five-star restaurant than that short dress hanging in the back of her closet.

He sees Lauren as Lauren ― his cousin, his best friend, his sister. And she’s beautiful.

“You look fantastic in it,” he says, laughs, kneels down till they’re level with one another; he feels equal with her now because they’re at the same height, because they’re two people who have fallen in love with the same man. “And I quite like the way you’ve got your hair done up, too. Looks really, really nice. And beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes, scoffs a laugh and leans against the wall. “You’re only saying that because you’re my cousin, Ni,” she excuses his compliments as he sits in front of her, knocking his knees with hers and eliciting a giggle that sounds so, so much better than the ferocious yells from moments ago, and he’s thrilled that she can still laugh after everything. “You kind of have to make me feel better about myself when I’m feeling particularly shitty. You have to like me ‘cause we’re family.”

“That’s not true.” Niall frowns. “I have to love you, but I don’t have to like you.”

Lauren chuckles again, and Niall does, too, and he knows that she’s remembering that day, years ago, when their grandpa had to watch over them while their parents went Christmas shopping: they were goofing off, jumping from bed to bed (they shared a room at their grandparents house and had two twin beds pushed a few meters apart) and Lauren fell, blamed it on Niall; she screamed that she hated him, that she never even liked him, and their grandad just laughed, just said that they have to love one another but they don’t have to like each other.

And that’s the truth, you know? You should love everybody, even if they piss you off, but you don’t necessarily have to like them.

“So it’s okay then?”

Niall slants his head, raises his brows. “What’s okay?” he asks, quiet and carful; he’s heavy and he’s thick and he’s full, and her words are sharp needles that can penetrate and deflate.

“It’s okay that I don’t like you very much right now,” she says, and it’s a statement, not a question, and the logic of a child is a force to be reckoned with, really, and sometimes you don’t grow out of your ways, it seems. “And it’s okay that I don’t like Harry at the moment, too. I mean ― I love you, and I’m… I’m in love with him, too, but I don’t like you. I don’t like either of you.”

Niall sighs, fiddles with his fingers; he knew this was coming, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less, and he’s glad Harry didn’t follow because hearing this wouldn’t have been good for him. “Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, that’s okay. Him and I ― we aren’t mad, Lauren. We knew you wouldn’t be happy about this, and we aren’t mad at you at all.”

She sniffles, tears a piece of feathery fabric from her dress and brings it up to wipe at her eyes before throwing the damaged tissue to the side ― she’s a strong woman, and she doesn’t need anybody to take care of her because she has proven time and time again that she can fend for herself in this world. She’s her own hero, her own rockstar.

“When did it start?” she asks, quiet and ― and broken, and it’s hard, you know, watching somebody fall apart right in front of your eyes, and it happens at different speeds, too, because Harry’s was slow and Lauren’s is fast and Niall’s has stopped. “When did you and Harry start… start feeling things for one another?”

This, Niall can do ― this is _easy_.

“When I first met Harry, he and Louis were in their dorm and Lou was high and H was drunk, and I just _knew_ ,” he replies, smiles at the memory; it’s one he’ll never forget, one that will not fade no matter how much he ages. “I just knew, at that moment, catching the two of them being weird together ― Harry’s lips were really pink and his eyes were really big, too, and his hair was a mess and he was only in his underwear, and all he wanted was a cuddle and all I wanted was him. I’ve wanted him since the first moment I saw him.”

_And now I’ve got him._

Lauren laughs, moves around till her back is against the door. “You knew then? Four years ago, you knew Harry was the one you wanted?”

Niall nods, thins his lips; he crawls toward her, sits on his bum and presses his shoulder against hers. “It’s him or no one, Lauren,” he says, searches his mind for an appropriate way to break everything down for her, but it’s tough and he needs Harry here, and Harry can’t be anywhere around the two of them at the moment because he it’ll only make him worse than he already is. “I don’t want anybody else in the world if I can’t have him.”

“Is he the same way with you?”

_Yes. Yes, he is._

“He loved you, Lauren,” Niall says instead, and he isn’t sure if he’s making it worse or making it better, but ― but there really is no light at the end of the tunnel, no flickering candle flame in the darkness of this situation, really. It’s just do and do and do, and hope for the best knowing that the worst is probably what you’re going to get. “He ― everything he did, everything he said to you, Lauren, he meant. He really did love you. And he still does, you know, in… in the way that I love you.”

Lauren shakes her head, brings her knees up to her chest; the gown she has on is split and it falls over a bit, shows her leg, and he can see a reddish bruise forming on her shin from the impact when she fell as well as a mean scratch on her bone. _Ouch_.

“He didn’t love me,” she says, quaking and uneasy. “If… if he really did love me, he wouldn’t have cheated on me. If you love somebody, you don’t cheat on them ― if you love somebody, you don’t love another person.”

No, no, no ― she doesn’t get it. She _doesn’t_ understand.

“Lauren, he did love you. He really did. There’s nobody in the world who can feel love like Harry, okay? He’s all in. And ― and it’s possible to be in love with more than one person at a time. _It is_. And when that happens, it’s better to go with the second person. It doesn’t make any sense, but it is better ― that’s the right thing to do.”

She swallows, scratches at her hair and pushes it out of her eyes. “Doesn’t that scare you, though?” she asks, turns to meet his gaze, and her eyes ― they’re blue, you know, but they’re darker than Niall’s, more of a navy than cobalt, more of a midnight hue than sky ― are full of tears, full of water that’s rushing down her cheeks and destroying what’s left of her makeup. And she looks messy, looks the way she definitely feels, and Niall wonders how much more he can take before he breaks, too. “Aren’t you afraid that he’s going to fall out of love with you since he already did with me?”

He is.

“I’m scared to death of that happening, Lauren,” Niall replies, and it’s the truth ― the thought of Harry falling out of love with him, the thought of Harry falling in love with somebody else is _scary_ , and Niall won’t ever be able to put into words how frightened he is of that possibility. You can’t live in fear, though, and Niall isn’t going to. “But you had him, and I have him now, and ― and if he does fall out of love with me, if he does move on to somebody else, I’ll never regret the time he and I shared. Ever.”

“You won’t regret going behind my back with my boyfriend?”

Niall grits his teeth, intertwines his fingers to help soothe the shaking in his hands. “Will it make me a bad person if I say I won’t?”

She blinks. “I don’t like you,” she says, emotionless and empty, and the only sign she’s giving Niall of her sorrow, of her sadness, of her seeping sensitivity is the tears that are still leaking out of her eyes, that are still streaking down her cheeks like a flood of rain. “I don’t like you very much right now.”

“I know.” And he doesn’t blame her one bit ― how could he? If their roles were reversed, and Niall was in her shoes and she was in Niall’s, he knows he would be acting the very same way. They’re cousins, after all ― similar, but not the same. “I know you don’t.”

“And I don’t like Harry very much, either.”

Niall sighs. “I know, Lauren, I know.” He drops his head back against the wall, finds her hand on her lap and intertwines their fingers, and he’s holding on tight and she’s holding on loose, and it’s kind of a representation of who they are, of who they were. But not who they’re going to be. “But please, Lauren, please don’t hate him. Please try your hardest not to hate him.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Her fingers twitch, squeeze his just the slightest, and his heart jumps, steadies into a reliable thump-thump-thump that beats rhythmically in his chest. “He’s cheated and he’s lied and he’s strung me along, and you’ve helped him, Niall. Why shouldn’t I hate him? Why shouldn’t I hate you?”

Niall shuts his eyes, breathes deeply; he’s uncomfortable and he’s anxious and he’s scared and he’s itchy, and he’s going to survive, going to pull through. He’s felt like this before ― maybe not on the same level, per se ― and he’s gotten out of it alive. He’s going to be okay ― this shaky discomfort, this peeling apprehension, this scratching sorrow, this blaring need to just leave will subside, will deplete and diminish, and he will get better.

Harry will, too, and he won’t be like he was, like he thought he would be ― he’ll be better, be stronger and weaker all at once; he’ll be fire and ice, black and white, cold and hot. He will be better than he ever thought.

“He isn’t the only person in this problem; it was mutual on our part to go behind your back,” Niall replies, and the words taste icky on his tongue, sting his throat, but they’re true, you know, and he’s going to be harshly honest with her. “You can hate me ― you can hate me, but please don’t hate him. He didn’t mean it ― he never meant for things to go as far as they have. And he wanted to tell you, but then everything started hitting him and he couldn’t. He didn’t know what to do. He still doesn’t know what to do.”

“He cheated on me, Niall,” she says, fierce and furious and fervid and ferocious; her grip is tight on his hand now and his is loose. “He cheated on me with you, with my cousin. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“He didn’t.” _He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t_. And maybe this ― Lauren isn’t listening to Niall, isn’t understanding of Harry, isn’t accepting of them, and maybe this is part of the reason Harry fell out of love with her: she doesn’t support and encourage him like she should. “He’s had it hard, and he’s in a bad place right now.”

She makes a noise; her nails dig into Niall’s skin, and they’re decidedly a hell of a lot sharper than Harry’s blunt claws. “What do you mean?” she asks, whispers, and her eyes are big and her mouth is parted and her face is red and Niall feels the way she looks.

Like shit.

But ― but it’s okay for her to look like shit, in his opinion. He didn’t assume she would come out of his mess with perfect makeup and nice hair and straight clothes. Insanity is pretty, and madness is an ugliness that shows for everybody to see.  

“He’s in a very bad place,” Niall repeats, hopes that his heavy emphasis will tell her what he can’t: _Harry’s sick_. “He’s not himself, either. This ― this lying and cheating and stringing along has taken a lot out of him, and he… that place is dark and he needs help.”

“Oh my God.” Lauren brings her free hand up to her face, covers her mouth with her palm; her eyes bulge and there’s a renewal of tears that stream from her eyes, and Niall feels it in his heart, in his soul. He’s cried enough, though, and he’s kind of all dried up. “Oh my God ― he isn’t okay and I… I called him a monster. I called him a monster and told him I hated him. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my ― Niall, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. Oh, Harry ― I’m so sorry, Niall!”

She falls into his arms then, wraps herself around his body, and she’s clinging to him, hugging him as tight as she can, and she’s a weight on his lap, on his thighs, and his hands are on the jacket she’s wearing, and they’re tangled together, and she’s crying and he’s hiccupping and she’s sorrowful and he’s full of sorrow.

And it’s ugly, kind of ― they’re dressed up for a wedding that never should have been planned, hugging on the floor of a linen closet at a hospital, and her face is smeared with makeup and his back has scratches her ex-fiancé left behind a few hours ago in the backseat of Harry’s car, and both of them are on the edge of no return but Harry is too far gone to find his way back by himself.

“I didn’t mean it, Niall ― I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” she says, gushes, over and over and over, and Niall can feel the words on his skin, and they’re a prayer, really, begging for forgiveness for the transgressions she’s committed, and Niall reckons he ought to be repenting, too, because she isn’t the only one who has done wrong. “I was ― I was just mad and he’s depressed and I called him a monster and now I’ve probably made it worse and I’m so sorry and he won’t let me around him to apologize but I’m _sorry_ , Niall. _I’m sorry.”_

And she is. He can feel it in his heart, in his blood, in his soul, in his mind ― she’s sorry for what she’s done, sorry for what she said.

But he’s sorry, too, and Harry is, as well, and he knows ― he knows Grace told Lauren because she felt sorry for Lauren, because Niall and Harry weren’t going to say anything. And it’s very shitty of her, yes, to say something and not tell neither Niall nor Harry of her doings, but he understands why she did it. He _understands_ , and he knows she’s sorry for what she’s done, too.

They’ve all messed up ― all of them. It isn’t just Niall’s fault, isn’t just Harry’s fault, isn’t just Lauren’s fault, isn’t just Grace’s fault; they’ve all screwed up, all fucked up, and Lauren needs to realize that. She can’t pin all the blame on one person, on two people.

That can wait for a later time, though. Right now, Niall just needs to make sure she’s stable enough for him to run off and find Harry.

“You love him?” she asks, whimpers, and her hiccupped question is a tingle on his skin that he hopes Harry can feel in his heart; it’s beating in sync with Harry’s, after all. “Do you love Harry?”

“I do.” Niall nods, tries to smile. “And he loves me, too.”

She smiles, and it’s a watery grin that reminds Niall of wilting flowers in the windowsill as the sun sinks low. “Please take care of each other,” she says, pleads. “Please don’t ever let one another go. If you love each other like that, don’t let go.”

 _Never_.

But he doesn’t say that. Instead, with a lighter heart and a heavier mind, Niall wraps her up, up, up, and they stay on the floor for a moment, locked in one another’s embrace against the door of the linen closet, and they just kind of hold on for a little bit longer.

-

Louis and Kamryn’s baby is born a few moments after Niall and Lauren managed to pick themselves up, managed to put themselves back together, managed to make themselves slightly presentable, and in the rush of everybody trying to celebrate Raleigh Elaine’s first seconds in the world, Niall finds Grace in the thicket of it all, and she’s crying.

She’s crying, and she’s stuttering and blubbering and apologizing, and Niall wants to drop to his knees and just give up.

No, no, no.

No. This isn’t happening.

“You have to find him, Niall,” she says, hisses, and her hands are a hard hold on his biceps, really, but he’s too far gone to feel anything. “You have to find him before he does something that’s going to hurt everybody. You have to, Niall ― _you have to_.”

“What are you talking about?” Niall asks, wrinkles his brows; as far as he knows, he and Lauren have only been gone thirty minutes, tops, and not much can happen in that amount of time. Right? “Who do I have to find?”

“Harry. You have to find Harry.”

Niall feels the color drain from his face. “Why?” he asks, demands, and he’s holding Grace now, making sure she doesn’t fall as she continues to cry and cry and cry _. Oh my_. “Why do I have to find him? What happened, Gracie ― what’s happened to Harry?”

“I said some mean things to him, Niall ― I called him a monster and I told him that he didn’t deserve to be loved by you and Lauren,” she acquiesces, and ― _no_ ; _oh God,_ no. “And I yelled at him and brought up all the times you and him were together in front of his mum and sister and Liam and Zayn, and he left and I’m _sorry_. I’m so sorry I said those things, Niall. I just ― I just wanted to protect you and Lauren, and in my eyes Harry’s messed up too much to be with either of you, and I’m so sorry.”

“Gracie ―”

“He loves you more than anybody I’ve ever seen, and you deserve him ― you deserve him because there’s nobody in this world who’s going to love you like Harry does right now. And I’m sorry, Niall. I’m so sorry. He’s a good man, and he loves everybody, and I never saw that, and I’m so sorry for being so stupid and blind and not looking at things from everybody’s perspectives.” She shakes her head, sniffles, and her hair is a mess and her dress is crooked and Niall doesn’t have anything to offer her to wipe her face as she continues to sob and slur and scare him beyond belief, beyond comprehension. “And when you find him, can you tell him that? Will you please tell him I’m sorry? He doesn’t have to ever talk to me again as long as he knows that I’m sorry for what I’ve done to him.”

Niall’s shaking as he moves with her, as he finds a tiny room with chairs and sits her down before her legs give out completely. “Where’d he go?” Niall asks, tries to collect himself; he’s breathing hard and his head is pounding and he’s so fucking scared that he can’t think, he can’t think, _he can’t think_. “I’ll tell him, Gracie, I promise, but I need you to let me know where he’s gone. I need you to tell me what he’s going to do.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.” She puts her head in her hands and screams, and the noise barely registers in Niall’s mind as he pulls her into his arms and holds on tight, as he allows her to cry against his chest and mess up his shirt all the more. What’s it matter, anyway? It isn’t like there’s going to be a wedding any time soon. “I don’t know where he went. And I’m sorry for that, too.”

Niall shushes her, pats her back with fingers that he can’t feel. “No more saying you’re sorry, yeah? You’ve apologized enough, and I’m not mad and I know Harry isn’t going to be mad, either. Please stop saying you’re sorry ‘cause it’s okay.”

It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

Niall hopes so, at least. He fucking hopes everything is going to be okay.  

“But you didn’t see the look on his face, Niall.” She pulls back, looks up at him, and it’s been a hell of a few months, you know, and everything seems to be hitting the boiling point at this very moment ― people are falling apart and babies are being born and Niall’s the only one that’s strong right now, really, and he’s buckling under the weight of it all. “There was… there was nothing there. The look on his face was nothing, Niall. _Nothing_. He’s broken, Niall ― he is _broken_.”

_No, no, no._

“Don’t say that! Just don’t say that! He isn’t broken. He’s just in a bad place. Don’t say he’s broken because he isn’t.”

Grace shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “You have to find him, Niall ― you have to find him before it’s too late.”

Niall lets her go, pushes her to sit back down; his hands are out in front of him and he feels the tingles, feels the hysteria rising, and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t hear, can’t see, can’t smell. All he wants is Harry ― he wants is to find Harry, wants is to help Harry, but he doesn’t know where Harry is.

Oh, God. He doesn’t know where Harry is ― _he doesn’t know where Harry is_. Harry left, and Niall doesn’t know where he is.

“I don’t know where he is, Gracie. I don’t know where he went.”

“I do.”

Niall pivots messily, sees his mum standing behind him. “What?” he asks, walks toward her and grabs her hands, brings them up to his chest, and she’s a strong safe place in the middle of a billowing storm that Niall can trust to take care of him till it’s blue skies again. “You know where he went?”

She nods, smiles, pulls her hand out of his grasp and reaches up to wipe the tears off of his cheeks. _Oh_. He thought he was all dried up, thought he didn’t have any more tears to cry after everything.

“I ran into him on my way; he was walking back to the church to get his car,” she begins, explains, and Grace lets out a loud sob that echoes in Niall’s ears aggressively; she’s blaming herself, but it isn’t her fault. It isn’t just her fault. “He asked if the pub was open, and I just gave him the keys. Your cousin Edmund’s there, anyway, and he’s seen Harry a few times to know who he is.”

Niall whimpers. “Mum ―”

“I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but I think you should go and find Harry,” she says, tilts her head and releases his hand, pulls away from his cheek; she steps to the side, gives Niall room to pass as she digs in her pocket, bringing out the keys to her vehicle and giving them over to him. “I’ll take care of everything here, baby. You don’t have to worry. Just find Harry. Okay?”

He nods, and his chest swells as he kisses his mum on the forehead, as he crushes Grace against his chest in a half-hug that does nothing to cease her bawling, as he speeds through the corridors and toward the exit and through the parking lot and toward his mum’s car at the back.

He’s going to go get Harry. He’s going to go get Harry before it’s too late.


	48. forty-eight

With a sigh, Harry twirls his straw around and around and around in his tall mug of chocolate milk, watching as his quick circles create a funnel, a tornado of man-made proportions that spins and swirls.

Hmm. It kind of reminds Harry of the situation he’s in: a man-made destruction of epic, _epic_ proportions. But ― but instead of ripping trees, instead of flipping cars, instead of flattening houses, he’s breaking hearts. He’s the funnel, the whirlwind, the tornado, and he’s breaking hearts.

Lots of them.

Even his.

But it’s been broken for a long, long time, really ― ever since he forgot Niall at work and forced him to walk home in the rain, ever since he and Niall laid in bed together and tangled with one another between the sheets, ever since Harry first asked Niall for forgiveness. It all started that day, sort of; since then, Harry’s only felt whole when he’s around Niall, when he’s with Niall.

And that isn’t good. _It’s not good_. Making somebody your home, giving them the ability to be the reason you smile, allowing them to dictate whether the skies in your eyes are clear and the oceans in your soul are calm ― that isn’t good; it’s unhealthy and it’s stickily destructive, too, and it’s taken Harry this long to realize just how sick he is.

He’s sick. He’s depressed. He’s in a dark place where black is wrapped all around him, and he can’t _see_ ― he can’t see a light at the end of a tunnel, can’t see the flickering of a lone candle flame in the vast abyss, can’t see a guiding hand reaching out for him in the middle of the emptiness.

It’s that simple ― it’s so fucking _simple_. He isn’t losing himself because he’s already lost himself, and it’s that simple.

Now he needs to find himself, needs to pilfer through the ashes of the man he once was and gather what he can use to rebuild, needs to cut the leftovers and match them up with what they fit most with, needs to bare himself to the world and allow his soul, his heart, his mind to mold him into who he is supposed to be ― and it may sound stupid, you know, may sound ignorant and overused and insane, acknowledging the fact that he needs to find himself, but it’s the truth and Harry’s sick of lying all the time.

It may take a day, may take a week, may take a month or a year or ten or twenty; there’s no limit on the amount of time finding yourself incorporates because everybody is different and that’s why the world is so, so beautiful. He just hopes Niall’s going to be there for him when he gets back ― _when_ because he is going to get better, because he is going to figure himself out, because he is going to clear his own path to live, because he is going to love Niall in the way he deserves.

But he needs to get away from it all right now ― he’s going to get away from it all right now. He has to. He and Lauren asked off a month from work for their honeymoon; she wanted to go to Norway, wanted to see Oslo and Bergen and Geirangerfjord, wanted to visit the Lofoten Islands and hike the Jotunheimen, and he went along with it, decided that what she wished to do would probably benefit them more, anyway, since he was lying.

And lying and lying and lying, and now it’s all blown up in an explosive turn of events.  

Now that the wedding’s off, though, Harry’s going to do what he wants to do ― and he wants to visit Machu Picchu in the Andes Mountains, wants to hike Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro, wants to learn to tango in Buenos Aires, wants to go horseback riding in El Norte Chico.

He has enough money to skirt around Peru and Brazil and Argentina and Chile for a month ― and India, too, but he plans to spend a little bit more than just a month looking at the colors, learning the languages of the people, and he’ll wait till his vacation days have grown before he flies out there.

Besides, he wants to see India with Niall because the colors in Niall’s eyes, in Niall’s heart reflect the colors of the mosques, of the temples, of the people.

On the quiet drive to the pub, he decided to use his ticket to Norway as the start of his getaway; from there, he’ll catch the first plane of three that will take him to Peru. He didn’t see sense in switching his ticket when he’ll be leaving from Dublin’s airport later on today.

It sounds lovely. A bit of traveling, a bit of seeing, a bit of learning, a bit of touching and tasting and hearing new things, new people, new ways is all the healing he needs, really, and it doesn’t make very much sense to the outside world, but Harry understands exactly what’s going on, knows exactly what he needs to do to get better.

He just ― he just needs to get away. He needs to get away from London, from Mullingar ― he needs to get away from Niall, from Lauren, from Grace, from his friends and his family, from all the people that are dragging him down and from all of those that he’s dragging down, too.

And that’s okay. That’s okay, you know? Going away for a week, for a month, for a year ― _that’s okay_. Harry needs to forget about the pain, about the lies and the rendezvouses and the tingling desperation that’s gurgling in his stomach, that’s burning his throat at the very moment. If he’s away ― when he goes away, everybody can heal in their own way: he can heal, Niall can heal, Lauren can heal, Grace can heal.

 _Everybody can heal_ if Harry leaves.

He’s the root of all of the problems, anyway.

And that’s not being selfless, either ― he’s being quite selfish, catching a plane without telling anybody of his intentions and doing his own thing for a month, off the grid and away from all those he loves. He’s leaving more for him than anybody. He’s leaving so he can breathe without coughing, so he can see without rubbing his eyes, so he can hear without asking for a repeat, so he can feel without the tinge of guilt that’s scalding his skin ― he’s leaving so he can get better, so he can fix himself.

He’s leaving so he can heal.

And that’s okay. _It is._

Nobody has to understand what he’s going to do, but they’re going to accept it. Harry doesn’t have to explain himself if he doesn’t want to and ― and the people that matter, the people that love him, that people that he loves will understand. He knows they will.

And he knows it’ll be okay, too. It will all be okay.

He doesn’t regret it, though. Any of it. All those times he and Niall hid in the toilets to get a quick fix of each other, all those times he and Niall allowed their bodies to speak between the sheets ― Harry doesn’t regret it one bit.

And he never will, either.

Harry ran into Maura a few kilometers down the road after walking away from his sister’s pleading eyes, from his mother’s wet gaze; she was on her way to the hospital, bringing a change of clothes for the entire wedding party ― it’s very uncomfortable wearing a tight pair of slacks and a long gown for over a few hours, you know, especially when it’s chaffing your inner thighs till they’re irritated and raw and itchy and you’d rather go naked than have to deal with the pain ― and after mildly explaining to her what was going on (he left out the part where he and Niall have been going behind Lauren’s back, though, as well as the fact that he was running away from the man he loves so dearly, so completely, so wholly; that probably wouldn’t have made the greatest conversation, really, and he knows he isn’t in the right frame of mind to elaborate something only he and Niall understands to somebody who won’t get it) she offered him a ride to the church to his vehicle, as well as lending him the keys to her pub.

She said it was closed at the moment, that it isn’t set to open till eleven-thirty, which gives the staff plenty of time to warm up the grills for the lunch rush after work lets out in a bit for a recess, but Edmund’s supposed to be there. Harry doesn’t know the man very well, only had a few conversations here and there with him, but they’re on a first-name basis, and that’s good enough.

Hopefully.

It’s only ― it’s only five twenty-eight in the morning, though, and he doesn’t want to be a hindrance for Edmund, doesn’t want to get in the way of Edmund’s duties.

He’s really good at getting in the way sometimes.

Maybe he’ll work on that, you know ― maybe he’ll learn how to not get in the way, maybe he’ll learn how to think of the big picture instead of the little piece he can see with bare eyes. Maybe he should make a list on what he needs to be sure to do while he’s away. Yeah ― yeah, that sounds good.

Or he could just, like, wing it? Just let everything happen naturally? Yeah, winging it sounds good; letting everything happen on its own, without premeditation is kind of the best way to heal, he thinks.

Yeah. He’ll just wing it.

Sounds perfect. Winging it sounds perfect.

He pouts, brings his hand up and rubs at his chin; his rings are cold, and the wedding band Lauren gave to him stands out elegantly among the rough pieces on his fingers. It’s very simple: it’s thick, kind of, and wide, and there’s two parallel lines that run the length; in the inside, inscribed in the same way hers is in cute cursive letters, it reads _My love for you is as timeless as the art in your eyes, Harry._

Dammit, Lauren is so sweet ― so sweet, so special, so soft, so sensitive and sacred, and she deserves to be loved, to be cherished and adored, and Harry can’t be the person to give that to her.

He can’t even give it to Niall, really. Not yet, at least, and ― and Harry is in love with Niall, and he’s going to be in love with Niall tomorrow when he’s in Norway, and he’s going to be in love with Niall when he’s in Peru and when he’s in Brazil and when he’s in Argentina and when he’s in Chile.

And he’s going to be in love with Niall when he’s back in London, too. Harry isn’t sure where he’s going to be in a month, isn’t sure where he’s going to be in a year, but ― but no matter where he is, he knows he’s still going to be in love with Niall.

Once you love like Niall ― once you feel a love like Niall’s, once you see a love like Niall’s, there’s no going back. You’re changed forever, in big and little ways, and there’s no fixing what’s broken, what isn’t broken. There’s just being.

And that’s what Harry’s going to do. He’s just going to _be_ for a little while.

He’ll come back, though. _He will_. He can’t leave Niall forever.

Something sparks in his mind at that moment; he slips his wedding ring off ― it’s a bit tight, kind of, and he has to wiggle it about before it’s able to be pulled over his knuckle ― and sets it down, fiddling around with his long necklace and taking it up over his head to sit next to the band, as well. He undoes the hook, grabs the ring, slides it along the chain and watches as it settles with the cross his sister got him years ago; he fixes the clasp, puts it back over his head, and it’s a comforting weight that settles beneath his button down, that finds its rightful place against his heart.

He isn’t in love with Lauren, no, but he still loves her, and he wants to keep a piece of her with him, forever and always. She means something to him ― given, she isn’t as impactful as Niall, no, but she is still something really, really great, and he’ll never forget the times they’ve shared with one another.

They were friends first, after all, and he hopes, in a selfish way, that they can still remain on speaking terms even after this explosion of epic, tornadic proportions.

There’s no guarantees, though, and ― and that’s _life_ , so it’s okay. Nothing is ever guaranteed, so it’s okay.

“I’m glad you aren’t hard to find,” a voice calls from behind Harry, and he smiles, lets out a puff of amused laughter as the stool to his left becomes occupied with his most favorite person in the whole wide world. “I can’t imagine having to run around after you in this town at five in the morning.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s five-thirty, Ni,” he corrects, bringing the mug of chocolate milk to his lips and taking a drink; it’s cold and it’s rich and it’s creamy, and Edmund deserves an award for this deliciousness, really. Harry’s never had better; _Two Lost Souls on Two Barstools_ only delivers the best. “Get it right.”

“Oh, sod off, you twat,” Niall replies, nudging his shoulder with Harry’s, and it’s a playful insult, a goofy bout of immaturity that brings a big, big, _big_ smile to Harry’s lips. The world is falling apart around them, magnificently so, but the universe they created with one another is still splendidly intact, full of colors and pretty things that chase away the ugly darkness that’s lurking at the edges of Harry’s vision. “Eddie, would you care to fix me up a glass of what Harry has?”

Edmund ― he’s been giving Harry his privacy, as Harry has him, too, which is the respectful thing to do, in his opinion, after he barged in and nearly caused Edmund to phone the police out of fear; they got along easily after everything was cleared up, and he even gave Harry control of the radio ― is behind the bar, taking inventory of the glasses that are placed on the wall on a long shelf.

He looks over his shoulder, gives Niall a pointed in look and ― and do all Horans have eyes like the cloudless sky, like the breaking sea, like the deepest river, like a field full of dewy blue bonnets? Are they all fucking fairies or something?

Harry shuts his eyes; _holy shit_ , he needs sleep. He needs lots and lots and lots of sleep. He hasn’t been able to get much; maybe he can catch a few (a lot of) hours of sleep on the plane to Norway later this evening.

“Don’t act like you’re a helpless little bowl of nuts, Jamie,” Edmund replies, and ― and where did Jamie come from? Niall’s middle name is James, not Jamie. Hmm. “You know damn well where everything is. Make your own mug, shithead.”

Niall scoffs, rolls his eyes, and Harry chuckles as he sips at his chocolate milk, drinking it all up till it’s gone. “You’re in a rather foul mood this morning, Eddie. What’s got you so colorful?”

“The fact that I have to be up this early is what’s pissin’ me off, Jamie,” Edmund replies, sighs, and he sounds kind of miffed, really, but Maura apparently asked him to take her place for the day, and it’s quite hard to tell a woman like her no. For Harry, telling Maura no is like telling his own mother no ― he can’t do it. “I’m going to take a break upstairs for a moment and give the two of you some privacy. If you make a mess, you’re cleaning it up.”

He’s gone then, walking the length of the bar and exiting out of a door in the wall that Harry’s never noticed before; it swings to with a soft click, and he and Niall are left alone in silence, in solitude, and it’s quite hard to focus on what song is playing lowly through the speakers when all he can think about is Niall, Niall, Niall.

“I didn’t want any damn chocolate milk, anyway.”

Harry giggles, hides the noise with his hand. “You’re pitiful,” he says, rolls his eyes. “A proper mess, Jamie.”

“He’s called me Jamie since I was a little kid,” Niall announces, and Harry turns, sees that Niall’s eyes are on his, and they’re blue and bright and brilliant and Harry feels big, feels large, feels huge ― in the best way possible. He feels so full of love and acceptance and support that his chest can’t possibly grow anymore. “It was hard for me to say Edmund when I was three and he had a rough time pronouncing my name, too, so we came up with nicknames, and they just kind of… stuck, I guess.” He shrugs, smiles, gives Harry a genuine grin that he feels all over his body. “In case you were curious.”

Harry nods. “I was.”

They’re silent then, and that’s probably what’s best, really, because Harry can now think properly.

He can think about himself, about Niall, about Lauren, about Grace; he can think about Kamryn and the baby girl he can’t wait to hold in his arms when he returns from his travels, about Louis and the many sleepless nights he’s bound to get (ringing up Harry in the a.m., too, for his seedy advice, no doubt, because no one else will answer their phone at such an ungodly hour) about Liam and his perilous relationship with his job, about Zayn and his haste to finish illustrating his sister’s books before they’re set to be published, about Gemma and her unexpected desire to stay in Oklahoma for a little while longer, about his mum and her opinion on him now that she’s aware of what he’s been doing behind his fiancée’s back.

He can think about how devastated the look on Lauren’s face was when she walked in on him and Niall, he can think about how empty and painless it felt to watch Niall chase after her; he can think about how horribly Grace’s words stung, he can think about how sorry it made him to walk away from his sister when she was begging for him to not go.

_Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go ― don’t go, Harry, don’t go!_

He can think about how he’s going to enjoy the greenness of Machu Picchu, about how he’s going to relish the many hikes of Christ the Redeemer, about how he’s going to awkwardly step on the feet of his dance partner in Buenos Aires, about how he’s probably going to fall off his horse in El Norte Chico.

He can think about how much fun he’s going to have, how much laughter he’s going to hear, how much color he’s going to see; he can think about the food of the world, the people of the world, the sights and sounds and sensations of the world.

He can think about it all, but ― but he really just wants to think about Niall. For a tiny moment in time, he just wants to think about how good it feels to love Niall, how good it feels to be loved by Niall.

“Kam had the baby before I left the hospital,” Niall says, ducks his head, picks at the trimming on the bar with nervous fingers. “Raleigh Elaine came into the world screaming, and Louis went down to the floor. The nurse had to cut the cord and grab a gurney for him to sleep on.”

Harry grins, shakes his head. “He’s always had a weak stomach,” he muses, scratches at his chin with his left hand. “I’m not surprised, really.”

“You aren’t wearing your ring anymore.”

Harry gulps, shuts his eyes. “I still am,” he replies, opens his eyes and grabs the chain of his necklace and pulls it out, showing Niall the ring and the cross. “I can’t throw it away or give it back. I want to keep it.”

“I don’t blame you.” Niall smiles, reaches out and fingers the charms on the necklace, and his knuckles graze Harry’s neck; it’s a heat, a hotness in his body, and he doesn’t know whether to move closer or move away. “I think I would be mad if you didn’t keep the ring, really. I know Lauren will always mean something to you, and she knows that, too. You really did love her.”  

Harry nods. “I did.”

And he still does.

“I ran into Gracie,” Niall says, and Harry’s heart clenches; he winces, pulls his necklace out of Niall’s hands and puts it back beneath his shirt, allowing it to settle against his heart. “She… she was crying, almost in hysterics, and I don’t know what happened between the two of you ― I know you and her haven’t ever seen eye to eye, and I know that she’s never been your biggest fan, but she’s sorry. She fucked up, and she’s sorry.”

Harry sucks in a deep breath that resonates in his body loudly. “I… I’m sorry, too. We went at each other’s throats, and ― and I know she had good intentions telling Lauren to keep an eye on you and me even though she had no right. I can’t really forgive her because there’s nothing to forgive ― if our roles were reversed, I’d probably have done the same thing.”

“Lauren’s sorry, too.”

Harry chuckles, shakes his head and wets his dry lips. “She’s got absolutely nothing to be sorry for,” he says, blinks; he can imagine her, sat down on the floor with her head in her lap crying, begging, pleading for Niall to tell her everything, and he knows Niall did, too. And that hurts; she doesn’t have to be sorry for anything. “You and I should be the ones apologizing to her.”

“She called you a _monster_ , Harry,” Niall says, hisses, and it’s all Harry can do to not throw the fact in Niall’s face that Grace called him a monster, too. They’re right, anyway ― humans are monsters, but Harry isn’t the worst and he knows he’ll be forgiven by the people that matter the most. He already has, it seems. “She owed you an apology for that.”

“And we owe her a lot more, don’t you think?” he counters, meets Niall’s eyes with a calm serenity that erases Niall’s harshness immediately; the effects he has on Niall seem to still be growing and growing and growing. “Don’t you think you and I ought to apologize for everything we’ve done to her?”

Niall nods, gives Harry a watery smile. “We do ― and we will,” he responds, determined and so, so strong. Harry’s very proud of his baby ― so full of pride that there isn’t any words in all the languages in the world to describe his feelings toward Niall at this very moment. “And everything will be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay, right?”

_Right?_

Harry yawns, brings his hand up and rubs at his eyes. “I’m going away for a while, Niall,” he says instead, reckons right now is the best time to break the news to the man he loves before it’s too late. “I think… I’m going to see Peru and Brazil and Argentina and Chile. I may backpack around the rest of South America, too, if I have time. I’m not going to let the days I asked off for a honeymoon go to waste just ‘cause the wedding’s off.”

“How long are you going to be gone?” Niall asks, quiet and soft, and the look in his eyes ― he’s strong and he’s resilient and he’s tough and he isn’t going to break, no, but the look in his eyes is needy and sad and kind of desperate, too, and it just convinces Harry all the more that the decision he’s making is the right one. “How long will you be away?”

Harry shrugs. “I’m not sure yet,” he replies. “I asked off for a month, but it may be longer. I don’t know yet.”

“When will you know?”

“I’ll know when I know,” he answers, smirks, and Niall’s lips twitch and he laughs, and it’s such a pretty sound, really; one of the most heavenly noises Harry’s ever heard is Niall’s laugh, is Niall’s chuckle, is Niall’s giggle. One of the most magical noises Harry’s ever heard is Niall. “I need to get away and take some time to myself so I can… so I can figure things out. And when I come back ― because I am, Niall; _I am coming back_ ― I think I may ring up my mum and ask her for her friend’s number. I need to talk to a professional, I think.”

_I think, I think, I think._

Harry doesn’t think; Harry knows, and that’s what he’s going to do. When he comes back to London, he’s going to set up an appointment with a doctor, and he’s going to finish his road to recovering the pieces of himself that are still relatively whole because he wants to share the rest of his life with Niall.

Niall crosses his arms over his chest, leans against the bar and tears his eyes from Harry’s. “Do you really have to go?” he asks, sniffles, and he isn’t crying, no, but Harry knows he’s on the verge of a breakdown and he can’t let that happen, won’t let that happen. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I know, I know, I know.” Harry reaches out, puts his hand in Niall’s hair and grips the strands tight, using his grasp as leverage to pull Niall’s head up so their gazes can lock and hold. “Let me have this. Just let me have this, Niall, and I swear ― I promise you that I’m going to come back. I promise you that I’m going to come back for you and only you.”

And, just to make his declaration all the more true, he takes off one of his rings, grabs Niall’s left hand and pushes the band onto his thumb because it’s the only finger it’ll stay on. And ― and his ring looks good on Niall’s finger, you know? It belongs there ― it’s always belonged there.

“Harry ―”

“Let me have this, Niall. Just let me have this, baby.”

Shutting his eyes, Niall nods and exhales, shaky and thick and sensitive and timid, opening himself up for Harry to take whatever he may need before he heads off to the farmhouse to collect his clothing, before he makes the drive to Dublin to catch his plan to Norway.

“I love you, Niall. I’ll forever be in love with you.”

He leans close then, shutting his own eyes, and lays his lips gently across Niall’s, fighting back the insistent urge to give it his all and kiss Niall like they’ve never kissed before, like they’ve never loved before. He moves closer, scooting their barstools together, and cups Niall’s cheeks with his trembling hands, massaging the skin just below Niall’s eyes gently, carefully, tenderly, lovingly.

Niall lets out a noise that ricochets in Harry’s mouth and echoes in his heart, in his soul, in his mind ― and then Harry is surging forward, wrapping his arms around Niall’s waist and pulling him closer, so they’re glued together from lips to knees, from hearts to minds, from souls to bodies.

And really, fuck these barstools for being so awkward and thick and heavy because it’s keeping Harry away from what he wants, what he needs.

There’s a sudden wetness on Harry’s lips, and a second later he realizes that it’s Niall’s tears dampening the place where they’re joined so close together, where they’re touching so intimately with one another. Harry rakes his hands upward, drags his fingers through Niall’s gorgeous, blond-brown hair; Niall makes a noise and sighs, sliding his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip once, twice, three times.

Harry doesn’t hesitate, opening himself up to Niall ― and he’s shocked to feel that his own tears are leaking out now, pouring down his cheeks and causing his chapped lips to sting in the most amazing kind of way, really.

He feels like an overflowing sea, like a flooding ocean of love, of adoration, of cherishment.  

Breathless, Harry pulls back and blinks slowly, and Niall’s lips are parted and swollen from Harry’s intense kissing. “Don’t go,” Niall whispers, shaking his head somewhat. “I don’t want to beg or make it seem like I don’t want you to be happy, but please don’t go. Please don’t go, Harry. Please don’t leave me.”

Harry blinks; Niall’s words cut deeper than Grace’s, than Lauren’s ever will. “I have to,” he says, and he’s crying and his tears are burning his lips and his nose is running and his fucking slacks are still rubbing his inner thighs raw and he just wants to get better for himself, for Niall. “I have to leave, baby, but I’ll be back. I promise I’ll be back. I gave you my ring ― of course I’ll be back for you.”

Niall nods, sighs, shuts his eyes; Harry reaches up, wipes the tears off of Niall’s cheeks, and the tracks they’ve left behind are beautiful. “I love you, Harry,” he says, whispers and ― and really, they’re just two lost souls on two barstools, like the name implies.

But they’re going to be okay. They’re going to be just fine.

Harry grins, tickles Niall’s cheeks till his eyes are open, till ocean meets forest, till blue waves are grabbing at green leaves, till there’s a whirlpool of color. “I know you do, baby, I know you do.” His smile grows as Niall’s lips twitch into a lopsided grin. “And I won’t forget you, either. I’ll be back, and I’ll be better, and then ― you and I, we can be whoever and whatever we want to be. We can do anything.”

“And this is what you want?” Niall asks, blinks; he brings his hands up, wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrists as tight as he can, and Harry can feel the grip in his heart because he’s holding on to Niall just as hard, really. “This is what’s going to make you better? And you’ll come back?”

“This is what I need, yeah.” Harry nods, moves close, tickles his nose with Niall’s. “And I’ll come back. I’ll always come back for you, silly boy. I love you with my whole heart.”

“I can’t stop you,” Niall says; _no, you can’t_. “I won’t, either. And I trust you. I support you. If this is what you need, I won’t try to stop you. If this is what you need, I’ll support you the entire way.”

Niall grins then, leans in, and he and Harry are kissing again, and it’s sad, kind of, bittersweet and definitely heartbreaking, in a way, but it’s happy, too ― it’s happy because Harry’s going to get better, happy because Harry’s going to come back, happy because Harry has full support from the one person he loves the most.

This is only the beginning ― it’s the end, but it’s really the beginning, too.

A cognizant noise breaks through Harry’s mind and he pulls back, chuckling beneath his breath; this song brings back memories, whisks him away to the family reunion where it all began, and ― and really, Niall should’ve said yes. Niall should’ve said yes the first time Harry asked him to dance.

But ― but third time’s the charm, as they say, and Harry isn’t going to let Niall say no.

“Come dance with me,” Harry says, pushing off the barstool to stand, and Niall’s smile is like electric fire and his eyes are blue-gold pools of sudsy water that seem to whisper words only the two of them can hear, only the two of them need to know. “I want to see the way you move.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. xx


End file.
